


Handicapped

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Caretaking, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Sexual Tension, Temporarily Handicapped Sherlock, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 42,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets injured on a case and ends up temporarily handicapped, leaving John with the task of having to take care of the detective in all sorts of everyday situations. The crossing of both emotional and physical boundaries ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after The Empty Hearse, canon-divergent insofar that John has eventually broken up with Mary (before the wedding) and moved back into 221B.  
> Rated M for later chapters.  
>  
> 
> As usual, none of the characters belong to me, nor do I make any profit publishing this story.
> 
> Furthermore, this work is not beta-ed or britpicked, all mistakes are solely mine.
> 
> Kudos and especially comments are very welcome - as always! <3

Sherlock had suffered many things in his lifetime. He had endured bullying when he was growing up, had experienced self loathe in his teenage years (something which had never quite fully gone away), had overcome terrible losses (Redbeard), had suffered broken bones, torture, humiliation and a broken heart during the years of his pretended death.  
But it seemed to Sherlock that none of these sufferings compared to the emotional turmoil he had to go through in the weeks following the case of The Murderous Chandelier.

The case itself had started off rather exciting: Sherlock and John had been invited out to the countryside, to stay at Ivywood Manor - a grand mansion which was generally rented out for events and affairs of all kinds. The mysterious thing was that four people had been killed at that venue over the course of the past four events held there - four people who weren't associated with each other in the slightest, attending different sorts of events, their bodies found in different rooms. The only common factor: they were all poisoned.

Afraid of compromising their reputation and losing business, the owners of the mansion had successfully managed to keep the mysterious killings under lock, instead inviting the world's only consulting detective and his trusted blogger to go on a secret undercover mission.  
While attending a fancy charity event, Sherlock had quickly dismissed human interference, as, according to him, "none of the staff could have possibly been so clever to commit the perfect crime". Instead, he had instructed John to simply mingle, unobtrusively sip his champagne and subtly observe the house as well as any suspicious household items which could have possibly come in contact with and somehow poisoned food or beverages consumed by attendees.

Just when it seemed like the party had come to an end without another killing, but with no step closer to the solution, either, Sherlock was entranced with the sight of John, standing on the top landing of the mansion's grand stairs, looking down at the last departing guests. He looked handsome, in his tux, with first grayish accents to his hair giving him an air of dignity - almost like a wealthy lord, Sherlock thought to himself, smiling. What really struck him about his friend, though, was how very lonely he looked in that moment. Lost, somehow broken, suddenly clearly bearing the pain and hardship he had suffered in those years since Sherlock's fake suicide. He never let anyone see just how affected he still was, despite the detective's return, but in this small moment of perceived privacy, it was more evident than ever before and Sherlock felt the strong urge to walk over, wrap his arms around the shorter man, apologize profoundly and protect him from all the bad in the world.

As turned out, protect him, he did - however, not in the way he had imagined. While watching the other man intently, his attention was suddenly drawn to the large chandelier above John's head, casting a soft glow about the landing of the stairs with 24 thick, lit candles. The candles were about halfway burnt down, Sherlock assumed it must have taken about four or five previous occasions of being lit all evening to get them to this point, and just as something about that fact clicked in his brain, he observed a tiny drop of liquid wax (much more liquid than was appropriate)make its way down the side of one candle, over the part of the chandelier's arm it was attached to, into mid air - right down into John's champagne flute. John hadn't noticed, and was just about to lift his glass to his lips to empty its contents. At that, Sherlock lunged forward with a desperate cry, successfully knocking the glass out of John's hand just in time but unable to halt his own motion before reaching the top of the stairs, consequentially toppling down the staircase rather disgracefully. When attempting to break his fall on the middle landing of the stairs with both arms stuck out in front of him, Sherlock came crashing down on his hands with full impact. The velocity of his tumble combined with his considerable body weight stood in stark contrast to the marble floor, resulting in a loud crack and sharp pains shooting up through both of Sherlock's hands simultaneously.


	2. Implications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone had told him repeatedly that he needed to be very thankful he hadn't been majorly injured elsewhere, as the marble steps could have easily cracked his head or neck or spine, but when he was staring helplessly at the nurse in front of him a few moments later, needing him to sign his release papers, the severity of his situation came crushing down on him."

Outside the door there were raised voices, a heated discussion, and Sherlock could overhear every single word of it. He was so high on painkillers that for once he felt no urge to join the commotion, speak up for himself, run the show. He just contented himself with sitting on the table in the middle of the examination room, right where he had been settled after his hands and pain had been taken care of, listening to John fight for what he knew his flat mate would want.

"I am a bloody DOCTOR!", he could hear him now, going on a rant, "I am licensed to perform procedures YOU have probably never even heard of, I can bloody well take care of my friend just as well as you or one of your fellow nurses would - if not better! We live together - no, it's not like THAT, he's my FRIEND! - Anyway, I can tend to all of his needs - which, by the way, are odd and sometimes questionable and hard to decipher and I AM THE ONE HERE WHO IS ACQUAINTED WITH ALL OF THEM! I can further tend to his injuries, ensure he doesn't get himself in trouble and make qualified decisions as to his general well being. I am perfectly capable of judging the severity of any medical situation that might occur and am more than willing to drive him back here for extended care in case of any emergencies. I just beg of you, LET ME TAKE HIM WITH ME! If you don't, I can assure you that both me AND him - specifically him - will make your work here a living hell."

Sherlock couldn't make out the reply, but was impressed with John's persistence and relieved when a few minutes later, the door opened to reveal his friend, smiling reassuringly. "Okay mate. Wasn't easy, but I got you out of here. They just need to print a few documents, then we can leave."

"Thanks", Sherlock replied and truly meant it.

"DON'T make me regret this, Sherlock", John warned teasingly, "If you act up, I'll have you back here before even you can deduce what's happening to you!"

"Hmgphf", Sherlock conceded, looking down at his hands in a sort of fascination that was slowly turning into horror as the effect of his pain killers started to wear off a bit. He had fractured his metacarpals on both hands and was wearing two matching casts that only spared the tips of his fingers. Everyone had told him repeatedly that he needed to be very thankful he hadn't been majorly injured elsewhere, as the marble steps could have easily cracked his head or neck or spine, but when he was staring helplessly at the nurse in front of him a few moments later,  needing him to sign his release papers, the severity of his situation came crushing down on him.

He took the pen offered to him with his mouth and managed to leave an indistinguishable scribble on the forms before walking away as swiftly and dignified as he could manage.

He was truly, royally FUCKED.


	3. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John knew the detective wasn't going to be amused once he fully came to terms with the extent of his predicament. So, best enjoy the silence before the storm, John thought to himself as he pulled out the covers from underneath Sherlock to wrap him in them gently."

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, the owners of Ivywood Manor had been kind enough to present John and Sherlock with the immediate services of their chauffeur, thankful that during the short ambulance ride to the hospital Sherlock had cleverly attributed the killings at their venue to their latest delivery of candle sticks - faulty goods tainted with lethal chemicals that, upon melting, had dropped poisonous liquid from the chandeliers onto unfortunate attendees' food and beverages.

It was four in the morning when the two men finally arrived at Baker Street. They were both extremely tired from their eventful night and had been drifting in and out of sleep the entire ride home. Once there, it was an unspoken agreement that sleep - however much was needed - would ensue instantly, and by the time John had lugged both of their suitcases up the stairs, Sherlock was already passed out on his bed, still fully clothed.

John paused for a moment to take in the sight, feeling his heart flutter. Since Sherlock's return from the dead, both men had been trying hard to restore their friendship, and although things would probably never quite return to what they were, a comfortable status quo had successfully been reinstituted after John had broken it off with Mary and moved back into 221B. John had tried to tell himself - and Mary, too - that their breakup had absolutely nothing to do with Sherlock's homecoming, but if he was perfectly honest with himself he knew that he just hadn't been able to content himself with a life and a relationship any longer that, despite being agreeable and perfectly nice, was nothing compared to the thrill and excitement and passion the love of his life could offer him - if only as his friend, flat mate and colleague.

Looking at said man now, John had to swallow hard as he realized that the following days, possibly weeks, weren't going to be easy. If there was one thing Sherlock couldn't stand, it was not being in control, being dependant on someone else. But seeing how both is hands were quite literally handicapped, he was inevitably just that: dependant on John's care. He knew the detective wasn't going to be amused once he fully came to terms with the extent of his predicament. So, best enjoy the silence before the storm, John thought to himself as he pulled out the covers from underneath Sherlock to wrap him in them gently.

Before leaving the room, another thought occurred to the doctor and he turned back around, reaching under the covers again to carefully undo Sherlock's belt and trousers - if the detective was going to have to pee in the middle of the night, he would most likely encounter considerable problems with even an endeavor as simple as that. John hoped that at least this way, he would be able to manage on his own, as pushing down trousers and pants shouldn't be all that challenging.

 

***

  
John woke with a stiff back from sleeping on the couch and, judging by the light filling the living room, assumed that it must be about 10 or 11 in the morning. He got up, stretched and made himself some tea before checking in on Sherlock. The man was tangled up in his covers, one bare leg emerging from under them in an almost deliberately sexy way, both arms extended at his sides, as if held in place by their seemingly heavy casts.

On the floor there was a puddle of trousers and pants next to some carelessly tossed shoes. Of course, John realized, pushing down the garments to pee hadn't been a problem - pulling them back up, on the other hand, was probably near impossible. He felt a familiar shiver run down his spine as he deduced that this must mean that Sherlock, under his blanket, was naked from the waist down. As if on cue, the man suddenly stirred and grumbled: "John?"

"Yes? Are you alright, mate?"

"Hmgrh. Pain. Head. Hands." As he slowly opened his eyes, he wore the most pitiful expression John had ever seen on him. If it wasn't so pathetic, he would have almost deemed it too cute to be true.

"Right. That's perfectly normal. I'll get you some more medication and a glass of water, hm? Anything else you need?"

No answer, which John took as a no.

After he had fed Sherlock his meds and guided his glass for him to swallow them down, he excused himself to shower, get ready, fill Mrs Hudson in on the new situation and quickly run some errands, leaving Sherlock to get some more rest.  
Before leaving, however, he placed Sherlock's phone right between his head and his hand. "Here's your phone, Sherlock, I put my number on speed dial. If there's anything you need while I'm out, just press 1 for a few seconds and it will connect to me, okay? You think you can do that?"

Sherlock shot him the first of what he was sure was going to be an endless array of annoyed please-do-not-patronize-me-looks in the near future, but then nodded half heartedly.


	4. Buttons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Unbuttoning Sherlock's rumpled shirt with skilled fingers, John couldn't help but let his mind wander to the countless times he had imagined performing this act before."

As it turned out, Mrs Hudson - after the initial shock - was quite eager to offer her help, stating that she would gladly make an exception under the circumstances and function as their housekeeper for the time being.

"I'm already doing Sherlock's laundry, dear, I can gladly throw yours in there, too! I'll do the cleaning and cooking for you boys, as well, and if you would like to leave me a note with any other groceries or items you need, it won't be any trouble at all to pick them up for you."

John smiled: "That's very kind of you, Mrs Hudson, but those are generally my chores anyway, it's not like I'm suddenly missing Sherlock's helpful hand!" They both laughed, then she patted him on the arm.

"I know, dear, but you'll have a lot of additional tasks with him like this and I'd like to help you out by at least taking the mundane things off your mind, alright?"

John had already called into work to take some time off for the foreseeable future in order to manage their household and tend to Sherlock, but he still appreciated Mrs Hudson's offer - and of course she was right, so he gladly accepted.

***

Upon reentering the flat, he was immediately summoned to his flat mate's room.  
"What's the matter?",  John burst in the door, a worried expression on his face, "Did you hurt yourself? Do you need my help?"

"I...there's something...it feels odd, never experienced it quite like that before..."

John was starting to panic, trying to calculate what could have gone wrong, when Sherlock suddenly added: "I think I'm hungry, John."

The doctor couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"I'm glad you find my discomfort so amusing!", Sherlock huffed and pouted.

"No, no", John tried to return to a straight face, "It's just - I've never heard you say that before, and you made it sound like it was an emergency. I'm just relieved, that's all."

"It IS an emergency. I never experience hunger."

"But you are physically drained, you haven't eaten anything in 24 hours and to top it off you've got a variety of pain killers and other medication upsetting your stomach. Of course you're hungry Sherlock! I'll go make us something to eat right this second. Are you fine with a turkey breast sandwich?"

"Yes, yes, fine, whatever. Just transport", Sherlock replied in a bored tone, then, after a short pause, added: "Oh, and John? I would much prefer to finally get out of this shirt and slip on a dressing gown instead. Would you...would you mind?"  
He only looked slightly awkward while asking for help, quickly diverting his gaze and inspecting the buttons of his dress shirt, then considering his arms with a frown. "You might want to bring some scissors".

John sat down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to make Sherlock get up as he was aware that the man must still be naked under the covers. Unbuttoning his rumpled shirt with skilled fingers, he couldn't help but let his mind wander to the countless times he had imagined performing this act before.

_That first night, when he had shot the cabbie for Sherlock. They had come after dinner, still high on adrenaline and slightly tipsy from a few celebratory drinks. They had stood in the doorway to their newly shared flat for a long moment, just staring at each other, and John had almost been sure Sherlock would step up to him any second, lift his chin and kiss him with those beautiful lips. All he had wanted to do then was to spin the other man around, press him against the wall, push his expensive coat off him and pull him into a deep, passionate kiss. He would have pressed the length of his entire body against the taller man, roamed his neck and shoulders and arms with one hand while unbuttoning his shirt with the other, making room to slip his fingers inside and feel that skin that looked so delectable, so sinfully soft and kissable..._

_***_

_That night, when Irene Adler had died and Sherlock had stood there, playing the saddest tune he had ever heard on his violin - he had looked so lost, so vulnerable, and just the sight of him broke John's heart. He imagined walking up to the man he had come to adore more than anything in this world, stilling the cry of his musical pain gently, and then reaching up to kiss away his secret tears. He then would have led him to the bedroom, laid him down and given him comfort. He hadn't wanted to ravish him, then - not that night. Instead, he wanted to slowly undress him, piece by piece uncovering the many layers of this mysterious creature, instantly grazing his protective touch over every single one of them as he went..._

_***_

_When Sherlock had died, after he had watched him jump and ran up to that body on the pavement - when he felt no pulse on that slender wrist, when he saw the blood and drew the only logical conclusion and still couldn't believe it - he wanted nothing more than to reach out, rip his shirt apart and get to his chest, desperately yearning to find a beating heart there, a sign of life, something. But they pulled him away, didn't listen to his pleas, and he had been certain that he had just missed his last opportunity to get close to the only person he had ever truly loved._

_***_

_When Sherlock had returned two years later, had broken his heart all over again by doing the single most wonderful and cruel thing he could have possibly done - giving John his miracle - he had wanted to throw him down, right then and there, and FEEL him. He wanted to kiss him roughly, bite him and bruise him just to see the reaction of his living, pulsing body.  He saw his chance and wanted to rip open his shirt again, to feel his heart - a heart that he knew was beating now!  - and to never regret again. He wanted to consume Sherlock, punish him, breach his body and take him in the most primal way he could think of - but of course there was Mary - oh god, his fiancée, Mary - and so he let Sherlock feel the impact of his emotions in the second most primal way he could think of - by punching him, repeatedly._

"Everything okay?", his thoughts were interrupted by a deep baritone, making him aware that the movement of his hands had stilled for just a fraction of time and that he must have looked incredibly sad and... _No. Now was definitely NOT the time to get aroused, John!_  
He shifted uncomfortably before resuming his activity. "'f course", he cleared his throat, "I was just thinking what a pity it is that we're going to have to cut up this expensive shirt of yours."

"Really, John, you mustn't look so devastated about that - the insistence to form sentimental attachments to inanimate objects is certainly one of your most despicable qualities."

"Watch it!", John chided as he got up and reached for the scissors, waving them in Sherlock's face threateningly. "Always be nice to the man with the sharp object in his hand!", he teased.

"Oh please", Sherlock huffed as John began cutting up the sleeves of his shirt, "as if you could ever intentionally hurt me", he added in an uncharacteristically sweet voice, batting up his eyelashes at John in a dramatic motion. It was supposed to be a joke, easy banter, but it made John flush nontheless. God, Sherlock had no idea just WHAT he would do to protect him from any harm, to keep him save in all eternity...

As he pulled off the pieces of fabric that formerly constituted Sherlock's shirt, John suddenly had to gulp again, seeing that he was already too late: Sherlock's back was an abstract landscape of marks and scars, bearing witness to torture endured not so long ago.


	5. A Generous Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "About an hour or so later, Sherlock suddenly broke the silence by announcing ceremoniously: "John, I have decided to let you give me a bath. Whenever convenient you shall proceed to the bathroom and pour me one.""

It took all the will power John could muster, but he managed to act as if he hadn't seen anything - as if he hadn't just been slapped across the face with a painful revelation - knowing that his friend would clearly be uncomfortable with the situation. They had never talked about what had happened to Sherlock during his absence - and although John had always realized that taking out Moriarty's network must have been hard and dangerous work, he had always preferred not to dwell on any potential sufferings the other man might have been through. Now, however, confronted with the clear evidence, it was all John could do to hold back his tears, suddenly feeling incredibly sick for putting as much guilt as he had on Sherlock for leaving him and making him mourn, when clearly the detective had endured so much worse. 

With a calm demeanor that surprised even himself, John helped Sherlock slip his arms into his favorite dressing gown, carefully tying it around his seated torso before leaving to make them lunch and give Sherlock some privacy to adjust the garment appropriately around his naked body when getting up.

Lunch could have almost counted as romantic - the two of them sitting on the sofa, next to each other, with John alternating between eating his own food, feeding Sherlock his sandwich and bringing a cup of tea to his lips - if Sherlock hadn't been so utterly grumpy. He complained about the tomatoes on his sandwich (" _John, must I tell you AGAIN not to buy tomatoes from large grocery chains? I can almost smell the pesticides!")_ , about John's technique of feeding him ( _"Your coordination is less than desirable. You're making me spill things all over myself!")_ , about John's own food consumption _("Seriously, you eat like a mouse.")_ and about the world in general _("If people weren't so daft to order candles via the internet from China we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with!")._  After the entire ordeal was finally over, he simply pulled his legs up on the sofa and flopped back semi-dramatically, assuming what could only be described as a clumsy, cast-clad satire of his usual thinking pose.  
John decided to enjoy the silence and, after leaving the dishes in the sink for Mrs Hudson to do (she had insisted he better not dare to do any household chores and was probably already going to be mad that he had prepared their own food), tended to his blog for a bit, informing the general public of their latest adventure and its dramatic ending.

About an hour or so later, Sherlock suddenly broke the silence by announcing ceremoniously: "John, I have decided to let you give me a bath. Whenever convenient you shall proceed to the bathroom and pour me one."

John ceased his typing and simply stared at his friend for a moment, dumbfounded.  
"Uhm. What?", he finally managed, incredulously.

"I know you heard me, John, so what seems to be the problem?"

"You have decided to LET me give you a bath?! What, should I thank you now, for your generosity?!"

Sherlock looked at him as if he honestly didn't understand what John was on about.

"How about I LET his Highness go and try to pour his own bath, wash his own hair? Then we'll see if something about your tone changes!" Although John knew that this was just Sherlock being Sherlock, he was still angry and determined to establish from the very beginning that he was not going to be treated like a bloody servant.

Sherlock pouted for a few moments, before clearing his throat and declaring in a rather calm and collected, if somewhat quieter, voice: "Although you must be aware that I consider tedious tasks well beneath me, you also know that I am rather self sufficient and do not enjoy having control stripped away from me. It is unusually difficult for me to surrender myself to another being, especially in more delicate situations. So all I was saying is that I have decided to let you be that someone, as you are the person I trust most in this world."

"Hah, as if you have a choice", John huffed, but directed an affectionate smile at the man across from him. They both knew he was right, Sherlock really didn't have much of a choice - but it still meant a lot to hear his approval out loud. This was just another aspect of Sherlock's personality - how he could go from being a complete and utter dickhead one minute to framing the sweetest declarations in the most neutral, logical phrases the next. John didn't know to what extent Sherlock was aware of his doing so,  but he loved him all the same for it, making him forgive almost anything instantly.

With a sigh, the doctor got up and went to the bathroom to start filling the tub, then reappeared with two plastic bags and tape that he secured firmly around both of Sherlock's casts. He was slightly nervous about bathing Sherlock - not because it was a particularly difficult task, but because of the incredible intimacy of it. The last thing he needed were more images, REAL images to fuel his obsession with the man - and if anything, touching Sherlock's wet, naked body would certainly do just that. Moreover, he was well aware that this time, it wouldn't be so easy to divert his eyes from the scars on Sherlock's back, and although he was still determined to not bring them up, he was deeply afraid of the emotions they would stir within him.


	6. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You've seen it." He stated, head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.  
> "Seen what?"  
> "My back. The scars. You didn't say anything about it, but I know you've seen them."

The bath water was ready, filled just enough to accommodate the volume of Sherlock's body before spilling over, leveled at a comfortable temperature and crowded with thick foam. It looked rather inviting, if Sherlock was honest, yet he was simply leaning in the doorframe uncomfortably staring at John who had his eyes fixed on the tub and was clenching his fists in a nervous habit. "Right", John muttered, clearly trying to adopt a more clinical attitude about the situation, "let me just untie your robe for you and then  I'll step outside for a minute until you are settled in comfortably, alright?"

Sherlock felt a sudden lump form in his throat as John stepped closer and looked up into his eyes for just a fraction of a second before tracing the movements of his hands, which pulled the knot on Sherlock's dressing gown lose in one swift motion. It was just a fleeting moment, a small gesture and the tiniest of sparks in that eye contact, but it was enough to make Sherlock have to sit down on the toilet for a second after John left the room. His head was spinning with sudden arousal and a strong desire for this to be something so very different from what it was...

He wished they could have done this at another time, in another life, when he hadn't completely ruined any of his chances with John yet; before he lost his trust by leaving him, lying to him. He wished he had realized he wanted this before going away, wished he had allowed the feelings that had clearly always been there before it was too late. In another life, John would have stayed, he would have slipped Sherlock's robe off him and then might have sunk to his knees, teasing him by licking his cock up and down. In another life, Sherlock wouldn't have two fractured hands, and he'd pull John back up to undress him, before climbing in the tub with him. They would wash each other, teasingly, exploring each other's bodies in the way new lovers would, clearly foreshadowing the events that were to follow in the bedroom that night...and that night again..and the next morning. In another life, it wouldn't be awkward, and Sherlock wouldn't be an invalid, and John wouldn't be his designated care giver. But that's just how it was, now, wasn't it?

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths and willed away the beginnings of his erection. He then got back up, shed his robe clumsily and carefully climbed into the tub, sinking into the foamy wetness until everything but his head and forearms were completely submerged.   
"All good", he called John back in, adding a teasing "Don't worry, you can't see anything through the foam" as he registered a moment of hesitation on his friend's face.

John took a seat at the edge of the tub and made sure Sherlock's hands were positively staying clear of water before turning back to look at him, unsure how to proceed next.

"This is odd", Sherlock stated the obvious.

"Yeah. Never really bathed anyone before", John admitted, looking slightly - what, embarrassed?

 "Thankfully I'm not very dirty to begin with and there's enough foam and soap in here to bathe an elephant, so I won't need a scrub down or anything of the like. Just the hair should suffice for today." Relief flooded John's expression and Sherlock felt a sudden jolt of pain at the realization.

In comfortable silence that wasn't even disturbed by Sherlock's usual comments denouncing the variety of John's shortcomings, the blogger proceeded to wet, wash and rinse Sherlock's curly mop. He managed with surprising ease, and Sherlock reveled in the feel of strong fingers combing through his thick hair, the glorious sensation of having his scalp massaged and the sheer proximity of John. And if he tried hard enough, Sherlock was fairly certain he could almost deny the intensely erotic aspect of all of this, could almost convince himself that he was not incredibly close to completely embarrassing himself in front of his flat mate by getting out of the bath tub with what wasn't an entirely flaccid penis. 

When his hair was completely rinsed and there really wasn't any obvious reason for remaining in the tub any longer- besides his ulterior motive of sparing them both from utter embarrassment - Sherlock decided to bite the bullet and stall by approaching a subject he really would rather not, but that he knew would need to be discussed sooner or later regardless.

"You've seen it." He stated, head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

"Seen what?"

"My back. The scars. You didn't say anything about it, but I know you've seen them."

He could hear John draw a long breath through his teeth. "Sherlock, you don't have to tell me. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. It's fine."

"But you want to hear about it."

"Yes. No. I don't know. Not if it's too painful for you."

"Won't be any more painful than when it happened in the first place", he retorted, realizing too late that his tone was bitter, biting. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh and he could almost feel John flinch at his side.

"I mean, it's okay now. The responsible parties have encountered adequate retribution". They were killed, throats slashed open and left to a slow, painful death, but John didn't need to know that.

He could tell John wasn't going to ask him anything, or prompt him to go further, and he was relieved to be able to proceed at his own pace.

"Taking out Moriarty's network wasn't easy - particularly his inner circles were excellent at obscuring their tracks and vanishing into thin air whenever I got even remotely close. Finally, I managed to infiltrate their ranks somewhere in Serbia - just a few more weeks and I would have been trusted enough to be introduced to their leader. But I made a mistake, I sort of blew my cover..."

He trailed off. He wasn't going to mention how he had blown his cover - how in a moment of weakness he had been careless enough to let himself fall asleep in the company of one of them, how he had had a terrible nightmare and awoken screaming for John.   
"Not entirely", he continued, "but the incident was strange enough to raise the network's suspicion. They never deduced my true identity or intentions, so they took to torturing me to try to find out more."

"How long?", John's voice was quiet and raspy, the way it always got when he was emotional.

"I...I don't know. I was locked in a cellar for what must have been weeks, if not months. They starved me, deprived me of sleep and when that clearly didn't affect me as much as they had expected, they took to beating me in regular intervals."

John didn't have to voice the question he knew was on his mind.

"Whips, chains, iron rods. They weren't the most creative bunch, but their variety and brutality was devastating enough." He tried to stay detached while talking, relying on his usual rational mannerisms, but eventually Sherlock could no longer stop the images from flooding his brain.

_He was chained up, arms suspended by his sides, his body going slack between them as the impact of another stroke with the metal piece hit him. He cried out, long past the point of trying not to vocalize his pain, tears streaming down his face. They kept asking him, wanting to know who he was, who or what John was, what he wanted. It'd be so easy to tell them, to make them stop, but he would rather die than endanger the man he knew was safely at home, in London. He had already died once to protect John, after all. As he felt a rib crack upon the next blow, adding internal damage to his broken skin, however, he wondered whether this could possibly be worse than death._

He had been silent for a few minutes, trying to escape the visuals of his brain, and John's fingers had resumed their now purely comforting act of stroking through his hair. He wanted nothing more than to lean into the touch, raise his cheek up to meet John's palm, lips grazing his thumb... - _No_.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock", John low voice emerged from next to him, and he sounded devastated.

"I never told them anything, they couldn't break me", Sherlock tried a small smile, hoping it would reassure his friend.

"How the hell did you do that? How did you survive?"

"I loathe to admit that it was Mycroft who came to my help. He got me out and together, we destroyed them."

"No, I mean, how did you survive all this torture without simply giving up? It must have been so tempting to just surrender before you knew help was coming..."

Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time since he had broached the subject, turned his head and looked into John's deeply troubled face before stating, with determination in his voice: "I had a reason to live for."

He wouldn't tell John that it was him who had kept him alive, him he thought of when the pain got the worst. That it was his smile, his eyes, his voice, his silly jumpers and his obsession with tea making that kept him going. The way he would look at Sherlock in wonder and call him brilliant, the way he'd get mad at him for being a showoff, or how they would grin at each other with victory and pride after solving a case. All of those things, fond memories infused with the occasional wishful thinking were what had kept him company in the darkest of his moments, but he would never tell. What good would it do, now?  
He had never even told John that he was the reason he had jumped from that rooftop in the first place, and that he was the sole reason he had returned. But by taking his wall down like he just had, by letting him in just a little bit - and yet so much more than he ever would anyone else - Sherlock hoped that it would serve John as an apology and maybe, just maybe, he would understand on his own what was really meant by it.


	7. Bathroom Adventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They locked eyes and although the entire situation was clearly weird, pushing boundaries that had always been questionable in their friendship to begin with, John was reassured by the way they looked at each other that this was going to work. They were going to figure it out, the funny parts, the awkward parts and the uncomfortable parts, he was sure of it."

Running his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls one more time, John cleared his throat and said: "The water must be cold by now, you should get out", adding a more confident tone to his voice than he was actually experiencing after Sherlock's painful revelation. He got up and bent over the tub, supporting Sherlock by hooking his arms under the other man's shoulders and pulling him up carefully until the tall man was in a crouching position that made him look so very small and vulnerable. Quickly, John went and  grabbed a towel, unfolding and holding it up in front of him, blocking his own view of Sherlock. The detective brought himself to his feet slowly until his upper body appeared above the towel, which John wrapped securely around his hips. He then helped him step out of the tub and reached for another towel to dry off his hair with.   
  
Sherlock looked absolutely delectable like this, a long lean body, dark, damp hair that was just a little bit disheveled, and that face - damn, that face. He resembled a Greek or Roman deity as he stood there in his towel - a god with giant mittens on his hands, but no less dignified - and John tried his hardest not to dwell on that thought as he rubbed Sherlock's chest and arms dry, having his every move traced by piercing, stormy grey-green eyes.

"Turn around", he ordered, and Sherlock presented him his back to be dried. A back that must have once been so beautiful - that HAD been so beautiful, because John had seen it, hadn't he? In Buckingham Palace, for sure. A back that was now covered in scars, streaks of different shades of light pink and white, placed randomly like an abstract painting, and John absent-mindedly let his fingers trail them.

He hadn't expected his flat mate to confide in him the way he had, but he was glad it happened. It broke John's heart, caused him to die a little inside, but he had needed to hear it, to accept that this was reality. He appreciated Sherlock's honesty, and although he would never be able to fully understand what exactly had happened on top of Bart's, or during those two years Sherlock was gone, this was a first step, and he thought that maybe it was a message, too.   
He had something to live for, Sherlock said, and then he had looked at him like...like THAT. Did he...could he mean...? No, certainly Sherlock was referring to taking out the web, prevailing over Moriarty, coming back and restoring his reputation.   
And yet, somehow John couldn't shake the notion that what he was feeling under the tips of his fingers might just be what he had desired for so long - proof (maybe the only one he'd ever get) of Sherlock's love for him.

He retracted his hands and followed the lines of the scars with his eyes, down to the small of Sherlock's back, where they disappeared beneath the towel that was wrapped around his hips. Careful not to startle Sherlock, he undid said towel in order to use it to rub Sherlock's buttocks and the back of his legs and was momentarily shocked at the sight. Scars were splayed all across his arse and top thighs as well, suddenly bringing on another, terrifying thought.   
"They didn't..?", was all he could manage, and Sherlock quickly reassured him by shaking his head, his brain already one step ahead of his friend.  
"No, no they didn't." Although he was relieved to hear the words, John couldn't help but wonder if he had just imagined the slight emphasis on "they". He didn't dare ask, he wasn't sure he wanted to know - not right now.

Pushing the thought aside he tended to drying the rest of Sherlock's body, staying put behind him as he dragged a bunched towel up the other man's length, awkwardly padding it at his groin in a blind attempt to try and touch him as little as possible.

"Thanks", came Sherlock's baritone, "that's...uhm..enough. I'm good."

After he slipped Sherlock's dressing gown back on him, John took to brushing his thick hair, which resulted in the reappearance of the detective's inner diva:

_"Don't use that brush, it's not suitable for wet hair."_

_"OW! That pulls!"_

_"Has no one ever taught you to brush out the ends first, then comb through the roots?"_

_"John, you see but you never observe. This particular lock clearly associates with the right side of my face, not the left."_

John was not naturally accustomed to taking care of longer hair, so he apologized for his mistakes and duly did as he was told until Sherlock finally seemed satisfied.  "I guess that'll have to do", he sighed and it was a compliment coming from him, really.

"I should probably brush my teeth as well", he added, shooting John a challenging glance.

Being a doctor and valuing hygienic standards highly, John could hardly refuse and thus took to brushing Sherlock's teeth for him next - an attempt that turned out even more disastrous than the hair incident and left Sherlock chocking on tooth paste and John hitting his elbow on the sink as he burst into a fit of giggles at sight of Sherlock, who looked and sounded like a manic walrus, coughing with white foam in front of his mouth.

"Glad that my predicament is so amusing to you", he chided as he finally regained his  composure, rinsing his mouth by bending down to let water run over his face rather than letting John help him any further. "Yeah, well....we might have to work on this", John replied, still giggling.

They locked eyes and although the entire situation was clearly weird, pushing boundaries that had always been questionable in their friendship to begin with, John was reassured by the way they looked at each other that this was going to work. They were going to figure it out, the funny parts, the awkward parts and the uncomfortable parts, he was sure of it.

 

***

 

When they exited the bathroom, Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen doing their dishes from earlier. Both men only nodded to her as they took their accustomed seats on the living room furniture, with John turning on the telly for some crap entertainment that was light enough to give his mind some time to wander and reflect.

He wanted to remember and catalogue how Sherlock's hair had felt beneath his fingers - god, for how long he had been wanting to touch that hair, run his hand through it, pull on it in the throes of passion, dishevel it in an act of playfulness or simply enjoy the sensation of such an intimate caress. It had ended up being another occasion altogether now that had finally allowed him to live out that fantasy, but he was going to enjoy and memorize it all the same. Sherlock's hair had felt wonderfully silky - thick and healthy and so much softer than his own, much like a woman's. He had watched the little hairs on Sherlock's neck stand up as he massaged his scalp, and he had instantly begun to wonder what other reactions he'd be able to coax out of the man if.... -

There was a loud thump as Sherlock - who hadn't seemed to be able to get comfortable ever since he sat down - accidentally knocked a giant book on the systematic nomenclature of organometallic chemistry off the coffee table in an attempt to readjust his position sans using his hands for support.

"Alright?", John asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock only gave an annoyed grunt and glared at his casts, probably wishing he could punch his fist into the wall out of frustration about his handicap.

John seemingly redirected his attention back to the telly, however, instantly reverted to analyzing just how much he had enjoyed taking care of Sherlock thus far. Care giving had always come naturally to him, it was his second nature (after the seemingly oxymoronic addiction to danger) and it was the main reason why he had become a doctor. He had wanted to help people in need, ease their pain and ensure their health and wellbeing. Taking care of Sherlock was - well, different. Different in the way that he made John's task impossibly harder by being the arrogant prick that he was, uncooperative and overly critical, but also different in the way that THIS was John's chance to get as close to the younger man as he probably ever would. He... -

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, would you stop that already??", John finally couldn't help but burst out as Sherlock was still fidgeting around unnervingly. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of the kitchen: "Is there anything I can get you, dear? Is there a problem?"

"No, no, Mrs Hudson, it's fine, thank you", John replied, trying not to let his annoyance out on her.

Sherlock sighed deeply and simply didn't respond at all, but apparently was trying to make peace with the sofa and John by sinking to the floor, crossing his legs, resting his arms on his knees and leaning his head back against the armrest of the couch.

For the first time since he had turned it on, John actually tried to follow the ongoings on the telly - a documentary on military regimes in various countries. From time to time, he secretly cast a worried look down at Sherlock, who was very obviously trying hard to sit still, his lips pressed into a thin line and brows furrowed in what looked like deep concentration.

After a little while, Mrs Hudson shouted from the kitchen that she had made them some soup and sandwiches, which she had put in the fridge (the top shelf, the only one spared from the presence of anything remotely human) for them to consume whenever they pleased. She then wished them a good night and excused herself with the promise that she'd be just downstairs in case they needed anything else.

After their landlady and temporary housekeeper had left, John could no longer ignore Sherlock's strange behavior.

"Are you going to tell me what's the matter or are you just going to fidget all night, pull a face and leave me wondering what got into your pants?", he asked.

Instead of answering, Sherlock stared at him for a moment, anger and frustration in his gaze, and then put his elbows on the sofa to pull himself to his feet. "Just. Leave. Me. Alone.", he growled before walking away.

John knew it was best to leave him be, dismiss it as one of the detective's many moods, but something about Sherlock's demeanor seemed off, worrying him. He could hear the man pacing forth and back in his room now, relentlessly.  
When the pacing still hadn't ceased a quarter of an hour later, John decided to inquire one last time, determined to force an answer out of Sherlock if he had to.  
  
Upon entering Sherlock's bedroom, his decision was only reinforced when he saw the other man's face, which was flushed noticeably and contorted in what looked like pain. John walked up to him and grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders, holding him in place tightly.   
"That's it, Sherlock. There's obviously something you are not telling me and I demand to know what it is. NOW." He was using his captain voice, sharp and leaving no room for interpretation.

Sherlock shook his head and averted his gaze, pouting.

"Sherlock...", John's tone took on an air of warning, "if you don't tell me what's wrong I'll have to call an ambulance and admit you back to the hospital - clearly you are in some sort of pain or discomfort, and I can't HELP you unless you fill me in!"

"Nothing serious, no need for the hospital", Sherlock squeezed out and John took a deep breath, glad to have at least gotten this tiny bit of information.

"Okay. Alright. What is it, then? Please, just tell me." He spoke more softly now, not so much worried about Sherlock's physical well being as his mental one. "You say it's nothing serious, but you're behaving even more...oddly than usual..."

"It's embarrassing." Sherlock said, still not looking at John.

Silence - and then, without properly thinking about what exactly he was doing, or why, John let go of Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him into a hug. The taller man was stiff at first, clearly reluctant to be on the receiving on end of such displays of affection, but then gave into the embrace, hesitantly.

When John pulled away and cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to treat what had just happened, Sherlock suddenly looked very vulnerable, having traded in his pout for a shy expression that looked somewhat out of place on his generally so confident features.

"I...I have tried to ignore it, to make it go away or come up with some sort of alternative solution, but I hate to admit that I am at my wit's end. Nature 1, Sherlock Holmes 0.", he finally spoke, pacing again, if slower.

"Hmm?", John simply expressed his lack of understanding, eyes never leaving his friend.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, closed his eyes and swallowed. "I….have got to use the loo."

"You've got to pee?", John asked incredulously.

"No."

"Oh." Realization dawned on him.

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him, cheeks even more flushed now, raising his hands helplessly: "And as much as I have wanted to avoid this at any length, I'm afraid I will require your assistance."


	8. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was humiliating beyond measure and even then, prior to the fact, it had already made him want to plot his secret departure afterwards just so he would never have to look into John's eyes ever again, because he didn't fathom he could."

The day was finally over and Sherlock lay in his bed, unable to go to sleep and reminiscing over the strange course his life had taken within the past 24 hours. It had been frightening - being forced to hand over control like that, from one second to the next and without warning. But he trusted John, more than anyone else, and John had been wonderful at trying to make everything as comfortable for Sherlock as possible. He was fine with the undressing, the feeding, the bath - all those incidents were only slightly awkward, nothing too intimate and nothing he couldn't find at least some sort of erotic potential in to make it a little more bearable, a little worth it.

But then, disaster had struck. How he had failed to account for something so natural - so obvious and inevitable to happen - in his previous considerations, he had no idea. Not that it would have changed anything. From the minute he had felt the urge coming on, he had wrecked his brain to come up with some sort of solution: he had considered just not eating anything else for the foreseeable future and simply willing it away - but of course it was too late for half of that plan already, wasn't it? And even though he generally mastered his transport excellently, he wasn't sure even he could withhold such a natural process all too long, and certainly not until his hands were usable again.

He then had considered going back to the hospital, admitting himself and having paid strangers take care of it - not much less humiliating, but at least they would be used to it, it was their job, after all. The prospect of not having to involve John in such a humbling act was more than tempting, but the idea of hurting the doctor's pride and feelings by withdrawing himself from the frankly lovely job of care giving he had spoiled the detective with so far instantly put a halt to that plan.  
  
Option C had involved secretly hiring a stranger - a nurse of sorts - to sneak into their flat and help him out, but when even he realized how ridiculous that sounded combined with the fact that he couldn't even properly operate a phone at the moment, that alternative was dismissed as well.

Contemplating these ideas, he had simply tried to hold off his need for as long he could, hoping for a miracle in the meantime. Of course John had noticed his fidgeting and discomfort, and eventually the pressure - both physical and mental - had become almost unbearable, forcing him to reveal his secret to his friend.

While he was completely and utterly ashamed, wishing the earth would just open up and swallow him whole as he stared into John's face and watched understanding spread on it, his flat mate had made a point of reacting as calmly and relaxed as he could.

"My god, Sherlock", he had said and had shaken his head in disbelief, "you didn't honestly spend the last couple of hours making a big fuss over THIS?!"

Sherlock had been a tiny bit insulted - did John not understand what a big deal this was? It was humiliating beyond measure and even then, prior to the fact, it had already made him want to plot his secret departure afterwards just so he would never have to look into John's eyes ever again, because he didn't fathom he could. For a moment there he had even considered whether the media and his friends would possibly believe a second fake death of his.

John had then proceeded to pointlessly remind him of the fact that this was a natural bodily reaction and that he was a doctor; that he had survived medical training AND years in the military - and that therefore he had definitely  seen and done much worse.

_"Yes, but not from and to the person who craves you to respect them more than anything else in the world - the person who wants to be nothing but perfect and poised and admirable (if a bit arrogant and moody sometimes) around you so that you can call him brilliant and fantastic, and look at him like he actually deserves to be loved for a moment"_ , he had wanted to say, but didn't. He didn't think John would understand, anyway. The doctor always saw everything either black or white, good or bad (with the occasional Bit Not Good) - once he deemed something acceptable, perfectly natural, then that notion wouldn't suddenly change because it involved someone who loved him more than he could express - would it?

Not really left with any other options, Sherlock had reluctantly submitted to what followed next - John urging him to take care of business before painful cramps would undeniably ensue and offering politely to come in and help with the cleaning up whenever he was called.   
Sherlock had wanted to get the entire ordeal over with as quickly as possible, not wanting to give himself more time to overanalyze than necessary. When John joined him in the bathroom as per his weak and resigned request, Sherlock had to close his eyes and retreat to his mind palace, the only way he thought himself capable of coping with the sheer humiliation.

He felt himself taken back to his childhood; he had been in the exact same position when his mother had told him that he was getting too old for this and that he needed to learn to wipe his own behind. He had been embarrassed and afraid that he was disappointing her, like he was somehow less deserving of her love suddenly. Feeling very similar to how he had then, Sherlock bit his lip and fought back tears as John proceeded to clean him up with the efficiency and mannerisms of a doctor - detached but gentle, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

While washing his hands, John had given him one of those smiles Sherlock loved and cherished deeply - those filled with straightforward affection, and reassurance, and just the pure essence of John - and it had been too much for Sherlock to take. He had run off to his bedroom, no longer able to stop his watery eyes from shedding their contents once he pushed the door almost shut behind him with his foot (he didn't want to close it entirely as it'd be impossibly harder to open with his handicap). They hadn't spoken or seen each other since.


	9. Pi(e)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John must have noticed his mood, as his voice suddenly filled the room: "Are you okay, Sherlock? You have that look again - you know, the one that says you want to shoot holes in our wall, and I REALLY don't think we should do that to Mrs Hudson again...""

The next morning Sherlock was greeted by the smell of breakfast penetrating his room - not the usual toast and beans John prepared, but a full-on, extravagant breakfast like one would indulge in on a Sunday morning or at a hotel buffet. He immediately deduced that it must be Mrs Hudson's doing and - strangely excited about the prospect of consuming food - felt his spirits lifted. Yesterday was the past; he would look at John, and smile at him and interact with him like they normally did, and he would decidedly not let his humiliation get the best of him, ignoring what had happened last night and what would undoubtedly have to take place again sooner or later.

Breakfast was indeed delectable and Sherlock was thankful that Mrs Hudson volunteered to be the one feeding it to him, glad to be able to keep some distance to John for the moment. The three of them entertained a delightful conversation and Mrs Hudson contributed funny stories of how her husband once accidentally squirted chemicals into both of his eyes and had to wear eyepatches for an extended period of time, resulting in all sorts of hilarious situations for the couple.

"See Sherlock, that's exactly why I insist on you wearing goggles whenever you experiment!", John chimed in, sounding more like a long-term spouse than ever before, "I refuse to care of blind you, as well!"

"But I've always wanted to be a pirate!", Sherlock joked back, and the atmosphere was wonderfully relaxed.

***

Those dynamics shifted noticeably once Mrs Hudson left to do the laundry. John went about his daily routine, getting ready first, then returning to read the paper and tend to some online correspondence he had neglected recently. He treated Sherlock just like he always did - but the detective's mood had clearly worsened since the two of them had been left alone.

He wasn't quite sure why he found himself in such a state of disdain. For one, he was irritated because of sheer boredom - there was no case to occupy his mind, and his handicap severely limited the choices of other activities to keep him entertained: playing his violin was just as much out of the question as shooting John's gun at the wall was - although it might prove interesting research to try and pull the trigger with his toes...  
Conducting scientific experiments was further eliminated, as he definitely needed his hands for that. The same went for most games he enjoyed - attempting to play _Operation_ in his current state would be more ironic than anything. He could go online and mess with John's blog (he had previously created a fake persona who left rather irritating comments on each of John's entries - much to the blogger's fury and Sherlock's bemusement), however, moving across the touch pad and typing with the restricted use of one finger was rather too tedious to make this option sound very appealing.

So his predicament basically left him with a choice between watching crap telly (an activity he barely resorted to unless there was something in it for him - like getting to sit close to John on the sofa due to the perfect viewing angle, which just so happened to require some light touching of legs and sometimes shoulders) and watching John. The latter was, admittedly, one his favorite past time activities - he would pretend to be off in his mind palace, vacating the look in his eyes whenever scrutinized by John, yet secretly observing his friend intently. He would then catalogue the blond man's every move, his nervous ticks and subconscious motions, wanting to get to know him better than anyone else ever had. He would deduce everything from John's state of mind and his plans for the day down to his recent dating history and the last time he had had sex. Sometimes he would indulge in fantasies, too - inappropriate thoughts that he was certain would forever be limited to the bedroom of his mind palace and had no place in reality.  
  
Today, however, he could not look at John without experiencing a sadness that he knew had emerged from the events and his humiliation of the previous night. It had become painfully obvious to Sherlock that what John had done - WAS doing - for him, he did out of compassion, out of kindred spirit and because he was a humanitarian, because he was his best friend. Not out of love.

He didn't know why this realization affected him quite so much, it wasn't as if he had ever expected John to do anything out of love for him, to BE in love with him (even though, in the bathtub, he could have sworn there was a moment between them...!). It was just that having proof of the opposite turned out to be much more hurtful than merely having a notion not denied, not confirmed.  
And if the calm and rational demeanor with which John had reacted to Sherlock's utmost embarrassment, the ease and nonchalance with which he had unhesitatingly taken on any task no matter how uncomfortable (all of which Sherlock was very thankful for, but still) had proven anything, it was that there were definitely no complicated feelings clouding his judgment or betraying his reactions.  
 _"Much unlike my own current state"_ , Sherlock thought and, making a point of NOT looking at John, NOT FEELING, hated himself for allowing sentiment to ruin his day.

John must have noticed his mood, as his voice suddenly filled the room: "Are you okay, Sherlock? You have that look again - you know, the one that says you want to shoot holes in our wall, and I REALLY don't think we should do that to Mrs Hudson again..."

It was John's playful way of asking him about his feelings, wanting to ensure he was okay, showing his bloody compassion (which - right now - basically and irrationally screamed at Sherlock just how much he did NOT love him).

Sherlock neither looked at John nor responded - he couldn't - and the blogger ventured further:  
"Look, if this is still about last night... It was really no big deal, Sherlock, you needn't be embarrassed. I was really just - "

"It's NOT about that. I'm fine. It's fine.", Sherlock stated, and, as he could almost feel John's doubt hanging in the air, forced himself to look at his friend while adding dramatically: "I'm just SO BORED, John!"

Before the doctor could answer, there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson walked in, cheerfully carrying two plates to the coffee table. "I made pie and thought you boys might like some!", she exclaimed, obviously rather proud of her idea and motherly instincts. Thankful for the interruption, Sherlock reacted in an uncharacteristically positive way and wasn't even thrown when Mrs Hudson pulled out two forks from the pocket of her apron, plopped down on the sofa next to him and instantly took to feeding him his piece of pie. The detective could tell that John was barely holding back a laugh as he picked at his own plate and watched the absurdity of the entire scene with great interest. After they had dutifully finished their pieces and voiced the appropriate amount of praise, a pleased Mrs Hudson gathered the dishes and vanished just as quickly as she had appeared.

The unusual activity of consuming such large quantities of food in such little time left Sherlock extremely tired, so he deemed a mid-afternoon nap more than appropriate (and a welcome way to pass the time). Splaying out on the sofa in his typical manner, it only took a matter of minutes until the detective had fallen asleep to the soft sound of John's fingers typing away on his keyboard.

***

Due to his atypically active mind, Sherlock was hardly ever able to turn off his cognitive functions when sleeping, generally resulting in him experiencing lucid dreams - dreams during which he was aware that he was dreaming, and was able to control or at least actively reflect on his dream-actions to a certain extent. Sometimes, in particularly bad circumstances, this would mean that he was just plain annoyed at being trapped in another nightmare, thus generally deciding to hide somewhere while waiting for his awakening, hoping to successfully avoid the worst parts of the dream. Other times, if he was particularly aware, he would hijack his dreams and use them as testing grounds - ranging from checking the likelihood of diverse crime scene scenarios to seducing John in various manners and observing his reactions.

_Right now, they were at a crime scene; him and John, Lestrade standing somewhere in the corner interviewing a witness. John was examining the body, while Sherlock was looking around. The killer was still among the crowd of curious observers, he knew instinctively. As a suspicious shadow darted off into a small alley to their left, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled the startled man with him, ready to chase down the criminal. Halfway down the alley, eyes still pinned to the back of the fugitive ahead of them, Sherlock realized a little belatedly what was going o - that this was a dream. Exasperated, he came to a full stop, John bumping into him. He REALLY didn't feel like wasting pointless energy by chasing a murderer that was merely a figment of his brain - let him run free, what harm could he do? Sherlock didn't have an affinity for running in real life, he certainly didn't feel inclined to pursue this tedious activity in his dreams, too. Instead, he was going to try something different: still holding John's hand, who shot him a confused look, he brought it close to his face, then let his lips graze those strong fingers, barely touching, eyes still locked on John's. He could hear the other man's breath hitch as he turned his hand palm-up and pressed a small kiss onto the soft and slightly sweaty skin._

_"Why do take care of me the way you do, John?", he made his dream-self ask, clasping John's hand tightly between his own now._

_"Wait - why aren't we chasing this man anymore?"_

_"Answer my question, John, just trust me."_  
  
"Well, I'm a doctor, and you're my best friend, isn't it a logical deduction?", John finally replied.

_"You're a doctor, not a nurse, and I'm a pain in the ass. What kind of friend would do this, give so selflessly without ever questioning or demanding anything in return? This isn't normal, John."_

_"When have we ever done normal, Sherlock?" He was right. Still, he had to know, had to know for sure._

_"Why is it so natural to you, John, why do you never hesitate, or seem uncertain, shocked, anything? How can you be so detached and so professional, and so kind at the same time?"_

_"Is that what you think I am? Never hesitant, never uncertain or shocked or personally affected? You're right - with my usual patients, that's how I am. With you, it's not. Not at all. By now I've just had enough practice to fake my way through it, you know."_

_"What do you mean?" Sherlock was confused, and he wanted to know more, desperately dig deeper before he had to wake up._

_"That with you, I question my every move, my every decision. I'm constantly afraid of making a mistake - offending you, hurting you, or - worst of all - losing you. Again. I am never more hesitant, uncertain or affected by everything that happens than when I am with you, Sherlock. But I can't show you that, I can't - I can't let my feelings get to me like that, especially not now. I know you like to think you're the strong one, but sometimes - right now - I need to be strong for YOU, and this is how. It's not easy, you know? You want to know why I take care of you the way I do? If you must know, it's because I love you, you bloody idiot!"_

_Sherlock had to swallow down tears as he listened to what his brain subconsciously made John confess. How much of this speech was wishful thinking, and how much was a product of any evidence he had neglected to acknowledge in his waking state? Now Sherlock couldn't wait to wake back up, so he could analyze the situation further and with full access to his brain._

_Just as John brought his hand to Sherlock's, which were still wrapped tightly around the fingers of the doctor's other hand, and slowly raised the clasped tangle of extremities to his lips, Sherlock felt a tingle throughout his body and was then suddenly confronted with blackness, a dull ache in both of his hands and John's fingers on his left arm..._

Wait, John's fingers on his left arm? But he was awake now, how could that still be? Carefully, he squinted through closed eyelids only to discover that John was indeed hunched over his arm, which was dangling off the side of the sofa. He was touching him, hand moving in some sort of motion that he couldn't quite place, really only being able to see his friend's back. To John's other side, his laptop was propped up on the coffee table and the man kept glancing over at it before returning his attention to Sherlock's hand.

"Mngh...John...", he grumbled, thoroughly confused as to what was going on.

"Almost finished", John replied without even turning around, "just hang on a few more minutes, and don't look!"

"What are you doing??"

"You'll see." John sounded strangely exited, which the detective considered worrisome.

He tried not to be a pest and closed his eyes again, letting John finish whatever it was that he was doing and focus on the revelations (fantasies?) of his dream. Could it be possible that what Sherlock had mistaken for humanitarian kindness and professional detachment, devoid of any profound emotion, was indeed really just a cover-up for love as the main motivator of John's actions and care giving? If so, John must be a better master of his transport and sentiment than Sherlock had ever given him credit for...

"Seriously, what are you doing?" His patience was already running thin.

"If you must know..." _"If you must know, it's because I love you, you bloody idiot!" -  No, no, Sherlock, that was just a dream!_

"If you must know, I'm drawing on your cast."

"Why would you do that?"

John laughed, still continuing his work: "Oh Sherlock, sometimes I forget how wonderfully oblivious you are!"

Sherlock just snorted in annoyance.

"It's what you do, what kids do when one of their friends has a cast. They all come to draw on it and sign it - it's fun, it's a way to show your support and well-wishes and it makes it look prettier!"

"John, I am neither a child nor do I care about the visual appeal of my cast."

"I know, that's why I made yours special. Just wait a minute and you'll see."

"Mmm'kay".

Sherlock hated to admit that his curiosity was really piqued now, so when John finally moved out of the way and beamed at him, he instantly rose to a sitting position and raised both of his hands in front of his face for closer inspection.  
He was confused. Both casts were completely covered in tiny numbers, drawn on in various colors and crowding every square millimeter of material.

"Uhm. Thanks?"

John's broad grin turned into a genuine laugh: "You don't get it, do you?"

"Hmm no. You said it was supposed to be a pretty drawing. This is more reminiscent of a numeric rainbow explosion."

"I never said YOURS would be a pretty drawing. I said it'd be special", John corrected him. "I know better than to try and appease you with pretty things, you git!"

"So is this supposed to mean something, then?" Sherlock was still confused, and slightly embarrassed that he apparently hadn't understood the meaning of this piece of art yet.

"Of course it is! Look, it starts here...", he said and pointed to the bold, black number "3" nestled in the top left corner of Sherlock's left cast. The detective's gaze followed the string of numbers succeeding to the right of said "3", and it only took a few split seconds for his brain to proceed and interpret the seemingly random sequence of "14159265359...".

"Oh!", he then exclaimed and his face lit up in delight, "this is Pi!"

"Yup, certainly is. It wraps all the way around and down this hand and then continues in the top left corner of your right hand.", John beamed proudly.

"That's amazing!", Sherlock was truly impressed and examined his casts closer in fascination.

"Glad you like it", John responded and blushed slightly, suddenly seeming a bit shy, "I just...Mrs Hudson's pie inspired me - it made me think of how proud you were that you could recite the first 75 digits of Pi off the top of your head, and then Mycroft outdid you by going to a 100 and...well, I think you didn't speak to him for two months straight. So I figured, the next time these casts leave you bored and frustrated, you could work on getting back at your brother - I managed to fit almost 300 digits, I think that should suffice for now..."

Sherlock almost jumped with glee at the prospect and let out an excited: "John, that's a marvelous idea! I underestimated you, truly."

John dismissed it with a gesture of his hand, but the detective could tell that he was rather pleased with himself, proud and happy to have caused his patient and friend such delight.

"Thank you", Sherlock whispered affectionately and admired his casts lovingly. And then, out of nowhere, he suddenly choked up as a realization hit him: _"...because I love you, you bloody idiot!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to give a quick shout out to anyone who's still bearing with me here - thank you for that!  
> I'd be lying if I said I had a clear idea of where this fic was going to go when I started it, it just sort of evolved, and I'm certainly hoping you enjoy the course it has taken so far!  
> I'm very happy about the kudos and bookmarks and strongly want to encourage any comments - they are the air to my writer's lungs ;)


	10. Daydreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bright morning light was already filling his room as John awoke to distant noises emerging from the room underneath his - Sherlock's bedroom. Ever since his return from the dead, it wasn't unusual for the detective to be plagued by nightmares, and for John to bear witness to the vocals that accompanied them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance if this chapter moves a little slowly - it was, however, inevitable as it is essential to the story line, and I promise that it most certainly paves the way for a much more...active chapter, if you will ;)  
> Enjoy!

John couldn't even begin to express how happy he was that Sherlock had appreciated his newly decorated casts so enthusiastically and genuinely. He could tell that the detective had been having a rough day - he seemed moody and frustrated and somehow incredibly sad. The doctor didn't know to what extent those emotions were really attributable to boredom, as Sherlock had claimed, and how much of it stemmed from the events of the previous day.

As John had predicted, dealing with the sort of codependency that was suddenly forced upon him wasn't easy for the self-sufficient man, but he had - admittedly - fared far better with it than expected, at least until the bathroom incident. John had been surprised about Sherlock's willingness to open up to him about his scars and about his allowing John and Mrs Hudson to feed him rather than simply refusing to consume food altogether.   
  
Despite the momentary relief, John should have seen it coming that Sherlock would experience some problems asking his friend for help when using the bathroom - after all, he didn't quite know how comfortable he would be with such a situation himself, it was something he had never really had to consider. He had done his best to reassure the other man, go about it in the most nonchalant way possible and not make a big deal of it. However, he could tell that it WAS a big deal for Sherlock regardless, could see his humiliation and had wanted nothing more than to comfort him - even though any acts of the like would have been more counterproductive than anything.

Afraid that those worries were still tormenting Sherlock today, John had been trying to think of a way to cheer up the sulky detective all day. He had already been considering drawing on Sherlock's casts but had neither had the opportunity nor an adequate subject in mind - until Mrs Hudson brought up the pie, that was. The work had been tedious, but Sherlock's deep sleep and his own determination to bring a smile to those gorgeous lips were motivation enough to keep him going - only pausing momentarily to touch his fingertips to Sherlock's, wishing he could magically heal those beautiful hands.

_Those hands...they were larger than his own,  but so much more refined - elegant, yet still appropriate for man. Long, slender fingers that moved gracefully but yielded a strength that was not to be underestimated._

_Hands that he had been secretly admiring for years now - holding a cuppa more elegantly than probably the Queen herself was capable of; adjusting a microscope with more precision than he had seen on most surgeons; slipping into leather gloves with more ease and grace than any man should be allowed to possess. John had often wondered what those hands might be capable of doing to him - just how quickly would their touch make him lose control? How would those fingers feel on his skin, in his hair, wrapped around him, inside of him? He had frequently lost himself in the imagination, his own hands only a poor substitute._

With a sharp inhale, John pulled himself out his daydream before it got out of control, focusing on his task instead and vowing that once Sherlock's casts were off, he would allow himself a thorough look at the hands in question under pretense of a purely medical inspection.

 

***

 

The rest of their day was rather uneventful, a comfortable silence enveloping them as John submerged himself in a good book and Sherlock had instantly started busying himself with memorizing the digits of Pi on his left cast. Although he still bestowed the occasional odd look (Thoughtful? Questioning?) upon John when he thought his friend wasn't looking, Sherlock seemed much more content now than he had before, much to the doctor's joy and relief.

The evening's bathroom rituals were simple enough, John's tooth brushing skills had already improved slightly and Sherlock only tried half-heartedly to convince him to give him a close shave, which John refused vehemently (he had no experience shaving another person and was not about to potentially cause the detective any more harm), but with the promise to call in a barber friend of his before it would get too bad.  

When John came into Sherlock's room to set a glass of water with a straw in it on his bedside table, the other man was already under the covers and - from the looks and practicality of it - seemed to be completely naked again. Trying his best to ignore the fact, John tugged Sherlock in nicely (a gesture the necessity of which was clearly debatable and which earned him an affectionate smile) and only barely resisted the sudden urge to lean down and press a goodnight kiss to those full lips before making his way upstairs to his own room.

 

***

 

Bright morning light was already filling his room as John awoke to distant noises emerging from the room underneath his - Sherlock's bedroom. Ever since his return from the dead, it wasn't unusual for the detective to be plagued by nightmares, and for John to bear witness to the vocals that accompanied them. He was sure he himself had caught Sherlock's attention with the whimpers, cries and screams of his own nightmares on numerous occasions, and it had always been an unspoken agreement between them to not ever bring it up.   
  
This morning, it was different though. For some reason having a more specific image now of what Sherlock was likely dreaming about (unless he had experienced even worse than his torture - God, he certainly hoped not!) made it almost unbearable for John to leave his friend in such misery, to listen to his pain helplessly. Moreover, he was afraid that any potential tossing and turning (or violent attacks at his pillow, if his own dream behavior was any indication) would cause more harm to the other man's fractured hands - and the last thing either of them needed was a prolonged healing process.

Quickly making a decision, John rose and went downstairs to relieve Sherlock from his night terrors. As he approached the other man's bedroom door - which, as usual since the injury, was left ajar - , the whimpers he had heard from upstairs grew louder, sounding desperate and helpless. John's heart broke, wanting to do nothing more than lay down with Sherlock, cradle him in his arms and tell him that he was safe now. He pushed the door open carefully, poking his head inside to make sure Sherlock was decent first - because honestly he didn't know just how to proceed if he had indeed tossed the covers away mid sleep and was stark naked now.   
Thankfully, the nude body in question was mostly covered and John exhaled in relief (or was it disappointment?). However, his expression was quick to change to worry as he watched his friend, who was splayed sideways, almost on his stomach, engage in what seemed to be an aggressive fight with the mattress - and judging from the sounds that escaped his mouth, he was losing.

John walked over to the bed briskly and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder while simultaneously addressing him with a reassuring voice: "Sherlock, wake up! You're drea - "

The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat as Sherlock snapped his head around to look at him, eyes wide open in sheer panic and then tried to quickly - and unsuccessfully - disguise what John only now noticed was a considerable erection.

"Oh my god", he muttered, "I'm...oh god, I'm so sorry". He instantly averted his gaze, but not before registering all the signs on Sherlock's face (flushed cheeks, parted lips, dark eyes) and combining them with what he had clearly misinterpreted before: Sherlock's wasn't having a nightmare, he was whimpering with arousal, and what had looked like a fight with the mattress must actually be a desperate attempt to get off without - oh god. He couldn't use his hands! Yet another aspect that John hadn't considered before, but that was obviously proving a challenge without the option of manual help.

"I...I'm so sorry, Sherlock", he repeated himself and felt his cheeks and ears grow hot, "I..thought you were having a nightmare, and I didn't want you to hurt your hands and so I...Oh god, I'm just going to leave now."  
John was already halfway to the door when Sherlock, who had been shell shocked until then, spoke: "As a doctor...what would you...uhm...recommend to...uhm, resolve this situation?"

John turned around, yielding utter confusion: "I don't understand."

Sherlock looked deeply embarrassed: "I...uh...I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away...and then I thought...Well, turns out, this isn't working, either", he obviously was referring to his humping the mattress, "So...in your medical opinion, what would be the most efficient way to...rid myself of this predicament?" The shade of his face was almost purple now, and he looked absolutely endearing.

"Uhm...there's really not much you can do at this stage", John replied lamely while trying to keep his voice steady, remembering from the split second of a glance he had got just how hard and flushed Sherlock was. "The most efficient and healthiest way would be to just...uhh finish. Get off."

"Well, I can't, thank you very much.", came the snarky retort accompanied by an angry wave with a disabled hand.

"I guess you could try a cold shower....or just wait it out after all?", John suggested weakly, knowing full well that neither of those options were very satisfactory. Then, staring over at Sherlock, who - despite John's presence and the awkwardness of the situation - still looked so wanton and needy and DESPERATE that it took the shorter man's breath away and made him painfully aware of the growing bulge in his own pajama trousers, he made up his mind. He knew that what he was about to do was probably reckless, a stupid, rash, juvenile decision that he would most definitely regret later on, but right now it seemed the only sensible thing to do - and bloody hell, he wanted to do it badly.

Without another word, John returned to the bed and sat on it, right next to a speechless Sherlock who gaped up at him in confusion and with a slight hint of panic. The doctor cleared his throat before speaking in the low, rough whisper that was indicative of his nervousness: "I'm only going to offer this once, and if you don't want to take it, that's fine, and we'll never have to mention it again. In fact, I'd prefer if you never mentioned it again regardless. Consider this an act of generosity by a concerned doctor and an understanding friend, alright?"

Sherlock still stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide. "I...I'm not sure I understand..."

"I'm offering to...uh...finish this for you", John gestured vaguely at Sherlock's groin, "If you want." He swallowed, already wondering whether this was a contender for the stupidest idea he'd ever had. Almost certain that Sherlock was going to reject him, probably in a profoundly insulted or similarly disgusted tone, John was not really prepared for the hesitant nod that he then received from the man by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also really enjoyed your lovely comments on the previous chapter, thank you so much! :) You guys make my day.


	11. Lending a Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Although this was just about getting Sherlock off, not about giving him the most magnificent hand job of all times, John considered it a matter of pride to try and give the best he had to offer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS considering giving into my sadistic side a little bit and leaving you all hanging with the cliffhanger of the last chapter just a tiny bit longer, but your lovely and wonderfully anxious comments have convinced me otherwise :)  
> Moreover, I've had a terrible day and I just know that by making you all happy it will make me feel better as well <3 
> 
> Enjoy this first installment of (only slightly awkward) smut, of which there will be more to follow sooner or later!

 

"Mmm'kay, alright...", John mumbled more to himself than to Sherlock, trying to hide his disbelief at the turn of events and instead flashing a somewhat insecure smile at his friend, who looked about as nervous as he felt.

_Calm down, Watson, this isn't a romantic encounter. No need to be nervous or self-conscious, you are NOT seducing Sherlock Holmes, and you are most certainly NOT having sex with him. You are simply helping him out in an unfortunate situation and you're a great friend for doing so. Nothing more. Sure, this isn't what friends do, not really. But you and Sherlock have never been just friends in the conventional way, have you? This is just another thing to add to the long list of odd peculiarities that define your (strictly platonic!) relationship. Just a hand job. Just...helping out._

Moving to a more comfortable position by reclining and propping himself up on his side, John took one more deep breath before he carefully let his hand glide under the blanket and rest on Sherlock's waist. Gently, he pushed until the other man was straight on his back, his erection now evidently tenting the covers. Sherlock's stomach was smooth and flat, his hip bones protruding sharply. John waited for permission, which was granted to him with the slightest nod and pleading eyes before Sherlock closed them as John's hand made its way down to coarse hair and the base of a flush, throbbing cock.

John had never been intimate with another man before - before Sherlock, he had never even considered such a thing - and he was surprised at how natural it seemed when he gave an experimental stroke. Sherlock's prick, which twitched in instant appreciation, felt different from his own - slightly thinner but longer, and he had to adjust his grip somewhat from what he would generally use on himself. The man next to him had been visibly clenching his jaw so far, not emitting a single sound, but now he pressed out: "Lubricant. Bedside drawer."

John did as he was bid, squirting a generous amount of lube onto his hand before returning it to its previous position. He had no idea how Sherlock liked to be touched, but being familiar with the basic mechanics and his own preferences, John would just have to experiment and take the detective's reactions into account. Although this was just about getting Sherlock off, not about giving him the most magnificent hand job of all times, John considered it a matter of pride to try and give the best he had to offer.

He started out with slow, languid strokes, getting Sherlock acquainted with his touch and giving himself time to get used to the idea that his fingers were wrapped around his flat mate's ridiculously hard prick. He wondered if Sherlock had ever been touched that way before - certainly he must have, right? John really wanted to believe so, because if not it meant that this somehow classified as his first time - and god, John was not ready to take on that responsibility, not like this at least.

As he added a slight twisting motion to his movements and ran a finger over the leaking head of Sherlock's cock, he was finally rewarded with a vocal reaction - a low, guttural moan filled the room and John thought he might be able to come from just that sound alone. _No, no, no! This isn't about you, John!_

Speeding up his strokes gradually, Sherlock's whimpers from earlier returned - almost reluctant at first, then quickly growing louder and more desperate as they were intercepted by breathless gasps and choked groans. Having found a rhythm that seemed to produce the most enthusiastic reaction, John allowed himself to look up and watch Sherlock lie there, eyes clenched shut, cheeks flushed, biting his bottom lip in a vain attempt at holding back his moans. He was wreathing, pushing his hips up to meet John's fist greedily, and he looked absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous.

John was overwhelmed with the realization that he was finally witnessing what he had been trying to imagine for so long - Sherlock, coming undone, submitting himself to pleasure in a way no one would ever think possible of the restrained control freak.  
 _He's submitting himself to pleasure, to the pure physicality of this, not to YOU, John, remember that! You're just a tool, a means to an end that couldn't be achieved otherwise at the moment. DON'T get attached._

He couldn't help it, though, and for a long moment he wondered how Sherlock would react if he gave in to his own desires and leaned over to kiss him right now. He wanted so much for this to be more than it was - he wanted to touch this beautiful man all over, not just his cock. He wanted to press his own body up against him, move with him, capture his moans with his mouth and hear that sexy low voice cry out his name upon orgasm. But, with this already being so much more than he had ever expected, John was going to relish every second of it regardless, was going to burn the image of Sherlock like this into his mind forever.

As if having read his thoughts, Sherlock suddenly growled, if somewhat breathless: "Don't. Look. At. Me." It was a command, undoubtedly serious, so John obeyed and tried to swallow his disappointment. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be an intimate encounter, he wasn't allowed to watch Sherlock at his most vulnerable, like a lover would.

Focusing solely on the movement of his hand again, John met the thrusts of Sherlock's hips with increasing intensity, feeling the body beneath his hand tremble with the first signs of climax building up. No longer allowed to watch, John closed his eyes - hand still working Sherlock feverishly - and couldn't help but wonder what the other man was thinking - fantasizing - about, which thoughts were about to make him come any second now. He was curious to know what kind of dreams had brought on this predicament in the first place, knowing full well that it must have been a very powerful fantasy indeed if it left the great master of transport so helplessly at the mercy of his desires.

Maybe The Woman was occupying the mad genius's mind right now, maybe it was her hand (her mouth? HER?) he imagined on his cock... John considered it a likely possibility, still convinced that something had transpired between the detective and the dominatrix then that he had been left out of. He felt a fresh wave of jealousy wash over him, but as Sherlock came with a high pitched cry that almost made John follow suit in his own pants like a bloody teenager, the doctor allowed himself for just a fraction of time to indulge in the silly idea that it was HIM who had brought Sherlock there, and HIM who had tipped him over the edge.

John stroked Sherlock through his orgasm, doing his damndest to fight the all consuming urge to look up at that beautiful face, see it contorted in pleasure and memorize its features during this extraordinary moment - but he respected Sherlock's wish, and dutifully refrained. Instead, he focused on calming his own breathing as Sherlock rode out the last waves of pleasure and finally stilled.  
  
Uncertain of how to proceed next now that the heat of the moment slowly subsided, making room for awkwardness, John uncomfortably realized that his own arousal hadn't ceased one bit, while his hand bore witness to the pleasure Sherlock had spilled all over it. Carefully withdrawing it from the covers, John made his way to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock in a motionless state trying to catch his breath.

Once in the bathroom, he had to take yet another deep breath, his head spinning, cock aching and knees weak with the utter need for release. Dazed with desire, he couldn't help himself when he brought the fingers of his dominant hand close to his mouth and licked one of them clean in a moment of passionate desperation to be close to the man he had been in love with for so long, to finally revel in his taste.  
  
Leaning back against the wall, John reached into his own pants with his other hand and began stroking his prick as he continued to suck off the rest of his fingers, imagining it was Sherlock's cock. Jesus, how he wanted envelop it in his lips, feel the size and length of it, taste it and tease it with his tongue. He yearned for Sherlock to fuck his mouth, for his fingers to hold on tightly to his hair and for him to then come down the back of his throat, where he'd be forced to swallow every last drop of it.  
The fantasy, made vivid by the feel of his fingers in his mouth and the incredible taste of Sherlock on his taste buds, combined with what had just occurred in the bedroom was enough to make John come within a matter of only a few, hard strokes.

After cleaning up and somewhat regaining his composure, trying to hide the evidence of his self-gratification, John returned to the bedroom to check on his flat mate. Upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock, curled up on his side, facing away from him while his back and shoulders were quivering in silent, shallow sobs.  
Although he wanted to do nothing more than curl up behind this beautiful creature, comfort him, rub his back gently and place soft kisses all over his neck, John knew instinctively that solitude was what Sherlock was seeking right now.  
So he obliged quietly.


	12. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Never before had Sherlock succumbed to his needs - his body - like this, and it was with shame and regret about John having to witness it all that he was weeping now."

Sherlock heard John come back into the room, pause and then leave again without disrupting the silence. Good. He didn't think he could stand his company right now, afraid that the slightest display of concern or comfort would shatter him completely -the part of him that wasn't broken already, that is. No, he just wanted to be alone so he could fully succumb to the flood of unbidden emotions that had suddenly taken him over the second John had left for the bathroom. He had instantly been unable to keep from shaking and feeling his throat tighten, the pattern of his breathing modified significantly. He knew John had noticed, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Now that he found himself in safe solitude, he let uncontrollable sobs and tears take over, weeping into his pillow like he hadn't done since those terrible days of his torture.

He wondered whether he would ever stop embarrassing himself in  front of John; how much more humiliation he would bring upon himself before the other man finally had enough and left him to his own devices - because that is what he was afraid was going to happen; no, what he KNEW was going to happen, inevitably. He was very aware of the fact that someone like him hardly deserved something as wonderful as John in his life to begin with, particularly not after all the hardship and pain he had caused the man.

For the longest time, he had had no clue what exactly it was that kept his friend, his flat mate, his blogger around, what made him stay and tolerate him - until yesterday, that was. Yesterday, when he had had that tiny revelation, an epiphany of sorts, suddenly illuminating a possibility, even likelihood, that he had never dared consider before: John loved him. Wasn't that the most logical of all deductions? It made sense and it explained so much, regardless of how improbable it seemed to him at first... _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._ Hadn't he once said that himself?

For the first time that evening, Sherlock had felt something new, a strange emotion flare up in his chest whenever he glanced at John: hope. A sentiment that, as it turned out now, was so deceiving, so inevitably fatal in its fragility and power of destruction that he wished he had never given in to it.  
For if there once had been hope (which, in retrospect, even seemed awfully doubtful), it was certainly destroyed now, obliterated by his own foolishness and weakness.

That night hadn't been the first time he'd had an erotic dream - hell, sometimes he consciously manipulated his dreams to be just THAT -, and it also wasn't the first time he had woken up with an erection because of it. It was, however, a novelty that he couldn't rid himself of said predicament, neither by touching himself nor by willing it away (which he had done before, quite successfully). He was harder, more aroused, than he could remember being in a long time, and he attributed it all to the bloody hope that had interlaced his dream that night. It had been John's love, and the actual possibility of it, that had made the figments of his imagination so much more realistic, the fictive sex all the more intense and mind blowing, and his bodily reaction therefore all the more devastating.

He blushed deeply, even now, letting a fresh wave of humiliation wash over him in the form of tears and muffled cries as he recalled how utterly desperate, how disgustingly needy he had been, rutting against the mattress in a vain attempt at finding some kind of release - _like a bloody randy dog!_ \- and how John had seen him like that. He had wanted to die of shame, just then, only being able to console himself with the fact that at least John had no way of knowing what had triggered his state, that John himself had been the leading man in his very fantasy.

And then his doctor had done the unthinkable and offered to help Sherlock out, had found a way yet again to demonstrate his bloody humanitarianism, his kindness, (his love?), his willingness to cross the lines for the sake of Sherlock, WITH Sherlock. And who was he to say no? His mind was too far gone, too clouded by lust and want and need to refuse such an offer - and wasn't it just what he had always wanted, anyway? Granted, maybe not like that, maybe the circumstances were less than favorable, but he was going to cling onto what he could get. After all, those had been the premises of his relationship, his friendship with John from the very beginning.

When John had first laid his hand on him, Sherlock thought he might come from the sheer bliss alone of finally being touched by these wonderfully calloused fingers, strong and gentle at the same time, providing love and healing and holding a power over him so eminent that it was intoxicating.

He had tried his best to keep his composure (or whatever was left of it), to retain at least some of his dignity, but John was right there, next to him, stroking his cock with such exquisite expertise that Sherlock had wondered if he had possibly done this before...And then the sensation, the entirety and ambiguity of the situation had been too much, too overwhelming, causing Sherlock to lose the last of his control, winding - thrusting - his body and emitting noises that he wasn't proud of. God, he must have looked ridiculous, laughable, reduced to this pathetic and sorry excuse for the grand man he claimed to be, so he forbid John to watch him. And then he climaxed - hard, and all over John's hand - and with the bliss and release came the horror, and humiliation set it.

There John was, doctoring him in the kindest of ways possible, feeding him and taking care of him, drawing Pi all over his casts for Christ's sake, just to make him happy! And how did he repay him? He had acted like an intolerable child, had made him wipe his bloody arse (not that he'd had a choice, really, but still), and now - to top it off - he had practically (if involuntarily) coerced him into giving him a hand job! Never before had Sherlock succumbed to his needs - his body - like this, and it was with shame and regret about John having to witness it all that he was weeping now.

As the tears slowly subsided after a while, Sherlock's mind cleared up enough to make space for an entirely different notion: if only he could somehow repay John for what had just transpired,  find a way to reinstitute a sort of status quo...Naturally, it wouldn't erase the morning's events or eliminate his humiliation about them, but it would at least provide some kind of solace.


	13. A Quest for Payback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""Hey", he said gently, touching his hand to the fingers protruding Sherlock's cast, "you don't need to repay me, alright? It was a favor. That's what friends do. And if you enjoyed it, if it helped you, then it was my pleasure. And that's all there is to it, ok?"
> 
> Sherlock just looked at him defiantly, registering but clearly not accepting his words: "Anything. Anything you want, John. Please.""

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After so many feels, I feel like it's time for something a little (if only slightly) more proactive, don't you? ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a personal favorite of mine!

 

John had stayed clear of Sherlock's room since he had heavy-heartedly left a crying consulting detective behind in it earlier. He had, however, been deliberately staying within earshot in case Sherlock needed something, which he knew was going to be the case sooner or later. In the meantime, he tried to busy himself in the kitchen, making tea, rearranging the cupboards, inspecting the groceries Mrs Hudson had bought for them - anything to keep his mind occupied, to not have to think about what had happened that morning, what exactly it meant for their friendship and why it had made Sherlock so obviously upset.

Had he done it wrong? Had he unintentionally hurt his friend? John didn't think so - Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself, and he definitely came, so it couldn't have been a physical problem that was affecting him... Unless it was his hands, maybe? Oh god, what if it WAS his hands, what if Sherlock had hurt them in the throes of his passion, what if John had failed to notice? What kind of doctor would that make him, now? But no, no. Sherlock hardly cried at physical pain - not unless it was torturously painful (John flinched at the word, the thought), and he would have had no reason not to consult his live-in doctor about it.  
Maybe he was just shaken by the experience - maybe it HAD indeed been his first time; maybe he hadn't enjoyed it? His body might have, but that didn't automatically mean that his mind had, too - after all, this was Sherlock and he was very good at separating those types of things. Maybe he had loathed the experience, loathed another man touching him (after all, John was still as unsure about the specifics of Sherlock's sexuality as he ever had been), loathed JOHN touching him?

John sighed and buried his face in his hands at the horrifying thought, as well as at the fact that he had ended up pondering, again! He shook his head vehemently, trying desperately to remember what it was he had been doing with that meat pounder in his hand when he heard a strained voice call his name: "John? John? Do you think you could bring me some water? Liquid of any sorts?"

Instantly reverting to his role as care giver and thankful for the distraction, John quickly assembled a small tray complete with a straw, glasses of water, orange juice and milk respectively, as well as a cup of fresh tea he had just been making.

Placing the tray on Sherlock's bedside table he explained awkwardly: "I...didn't know what you'd prefer so I brought a selection..." Suddenly he felt silly for his overcompensation, but couldn't ignore the small leap of his heart as Sherlock smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, John. I'll have some tea before it gets cold, then the others later."

As John helped him raise the cup and straw to his lips, he couldn't help but let his gaze wander over the man in front of him. Sherlock's eyes were still puffy from crying and his cheeks tear-stained, although he had clearly tried to pull himself together, to not let on how much he had been affected - by heavens knew what.

John cleared his throat. "How would you, uhm...feel about a bath?", he suggested, gesturing vaguely at Sherlock's body, which clearly must still have some evidence of their morning activity on it.

"Oh", was the meager response, "I guess you're right."

John smiled at the endearing flush that had instantly colored Sherlock's cheeks again and then went to fill the tub.

 

***

Already accustomed to the process from their previous experience, bathing Sherlock was now a quick and efficient endeavor, during which John didn't shy away from a more thorough cleansing process this time. He scrubbed Sherlock with a sponge, lovingly but hard enough to rid him of any dried ejaculate, and no longer squeamish about touching his genitals. He figured that line had been irreversibly crossed the second he had wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's prick that morning.

After they had finished their bathroom routine in comfortable silence, John made them some food (uncertain himself whether this accounted as breakfast, lunch, brunch, or something different altogether), during which Sherlock finally spoke again.

"I...I guess I owe you an apology", he said, voice hoarse and eyes not finding John's.

John dropped the fork full of scrambled eggs he had already brought halfway to Sherlock's mouth in surprise at the unexpected words.

"What would that be for?", he inquired curiously.

Sherlock looked somewhat annoyed at being forced to elaborate: "You know...This morning. I shouldn't have...You shouldn't have felt...It was not okay for me to let you do that - that thing. I'm sorry." He still wasn't looking at his counterpart, instead examining the table top intently.

John was baffled, he didn't quite know what to make of this. "So...did you not enjoy it? I'm sorry if I...if you felt that it was wrong, I could have stopped, I just thought - "

Finally, Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide: "No. No, I enjoyed it. It was a rather generous thing to do...Very - helpful, indeed."

"Okay....Okay. Glad." John smiled, but the detective still looked pained.

"I just...it feels like I took advantage of you, and I don't like that. You are already doing so much for me, and that was more  - much more - than I should have ever asked of you. I don't like being indebted to anyone, in any way. So I would like to repay you. Anything you want."

The pleading look in his eyes was almost heartbreaking to witness, and John swallowed. _Oh Sherlock._

"Hey", he said gently, touching his hand to the fingers protruding Sherlock's cast, "you don't need to repay me, alright? It was a favor. That's what friends do. And if you enjoyed it, if it helped you, then it was my pleasure. And that's all there is to it, ok?"

Sherlock just looked at him defiantly, registering but clearly not accepting his words: "Anything. Anything you want, John. Please."

 

***

 

John hadn't addressed Sherlock's plea for retribution again; he thought that by simply ignoring it, the detective might just let it go. It was a surprisingly considerate offer, but John really didn't want to take anything from Sherlock in return. Sure, he could have jumped at the opportunity and imposed all kinds of things on his flat mate, such as the request to finally delete that ridiculous fake persona he knew he was behind the creation of to leave infuriating comments on his blog, but somehow the idea of accepting any sort of compensation for something he had actually quite enjoyed doing (more so than he would ever admit) seemed utterly wrong. Moreover, it would render this act of already questionable intentions seem even more impersonal -which was something John wanted to avoid at all costs. But maybe that was exactly what Sherlock was pushing for? Maybe this was his attempt at reinstalling the lines of propriety that had been crossed? The thought saddened John and he decided not to dwell on it.

He was sitting in his chair, flipping through the paper in hunt of potential cases to occupy Sherlock's (and his) mind when the detective joined him, assuming his place by the window and watching him curiously.

"Are you busy?", he inquired.

"Not particularly", John negated.

"Would you care for a small interaction with me?"

"...Of what sorts?", the shorter man asked suspiciously.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then responded slowly: "Just...consider it a sort of experiment."

"Fine", John grumbled with an audible exhale, wondering not for the first time why he always conceded so easily and unquestioningly to whatever mysterious thing it was Sherlock wanted from him. _Curiosity. Trust. Could be dangerous! Love._

"Alright", Sherlock nodded, visibly pleased at John's quick agreement, "First, I want you to get comfortable, lean your head back and close your eyes."

John raised an eyebrow at him but did as he was asked.

"Now, imagine someone - anyone, you don't have to know them personally - you are attracted to."

"Sher - ", the doctor started but instantly resigned, knowing any objection would be a pointless effort. "Fine." He didn't have to try very hard for his mind to produce the image of someone he was attracted to - he had just had his eyes on him a few seconds ago, after all.

"Can you see her?"

John almost chuckled, but then simply hummed in confirmation.

"Good. Very good. Now I want you to imagine the two of you out on a date. I won't go into the specifics, as I think dates are a tedious waste of time, but you are free to pursue any vision your overly romanticized mind might find appealing."

Now John had to try very hard not to laugh out loud - leave it to Sherlock to infuse absolutely anything with his utter cynicism.

"Either way, it's going really well, she is beautiful, and she is showing you all the signs of her attraction. You know the night is going to end well, and you are all over each other in the cab on the way home..."

He wasn't sure just how Sherlock had done it, but in his mind was now actually and actively projecting this vision.

_Him and Sherlock, sitting at their usual table at Angelo's. Any other date would just be pretentious at this point, so naturally they would have chosen Angelo's. There'd be a candle in the middle of the table, the conversation would be lovely, the food delicious and John wouldn't protest this time upon Angelo bringing them dessert to share. "For you lovebirds", he'd say and wink at John, and the two men would laugh at it, before entangling their hands under the table. John would feed Sherlock a bite, mesmerized by those lips, those gorgeous, sensual lips... His heart rate would speed up, his breath would hitch, and Sherlock - brilliant, beautiful Sherlock with his fingers wrapped around John's wrist - would instantly deduce all the signs of his arousal. He'd lean over and whisper in a low voice, lips brushing against his blogger's ear: "I think it's time to go home, don't you?", and it'd be all John could do not to just jump him right there._

_They'd be in the cab, and they wouldn't kiss - not yet, not romantic enough in a cab, it'd be their first real kiss after all - but Sherlock's hands would be sliding all over John's thighs, and he himself would have his fingers trailing the nape of the taller man's neck. Their eyes would lock, and it'd be pure passion and lust between them. Sherlock's fingers would accidentally brush over the growing bulge in John's trousers, and he'd let a small moan escape in response..._

"Your place, or hers, your choice, really", Sherlock continued. _Mine. Ours. 221B. No question here, really._

"You close the door behind you, and she pushes you up against the wall, kissing you passionately..." _Finally he'd have Sherlock's mouth on him, soft yet demanding, a perfect interplay of curious exploration and heated fervor. He'd slip his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, gasping at the first contact, his knees going weak..._

John withdrew from his fantasy, suddenly rather uncomfortable with just how aroused this was making him. He addressed his friend sharply: "Sherlock! Just what exactly is this supposed to be?? Where are you going with this??"

Sherlock seemed annoyed at the interruption: "Just...trust me, okay? Please? Can you do this for me?"

Sometimes he truly hated just how much power Sherlock held over him and he made sure to vent his frustration with a loud groan as he adjusted his position and let the detective continue.

"You're making your way to the bedroom, and the first articles of clothing are discarded..." _That coat, that beautiful, extravagant coat, tossed to the floor carelessly. John's jumper following suit. Hands on shirt buttons..._

"You slip your hands under her blouse, feel her soft skin, as she kisses your neck and undresses you slowly." _HIS shirt. HIS soft skin. HE'd be undressing John..._

"She undoes your belt and trousers, then slips a hand inside. She - "

"HE!", John startled even himself by shouting in aggravation, no longer able to unite the false pronoun with the image of Sherlock in his head. He instantly blushed, but it was too late to take it back.

"Oh", Sherlock simply acknowledged his outburst, this sudden and unexpected (was it though?) declaration of his sexuality, and John could hear him step closer as he mumbled: "Good. That's good. Should make this more enjoyable, actually..."

He had no idea what the great detective was referring to, but was too concerned to care with trying to hide his erection from the obviously approaching man. Sherlock really better get to the point of all this soon, or he'd have to...leave, to take care of something. For the second time that day.

As if nothing had happened, the deep baritone then continued: "Alright, so his hand slips into your trousers, palming your erection through your pants. You moan, and with light pressure on his shoulders you push him to his knees in front of you..."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!", John exclaimed, now definitely irritated. "What the bloody hell is this?"

He opened his eyes, no longer willing to participate in this ridiculous ( _ridiculously hot_ ) experiment, and was shocked to find Sherlock on his knees right in front of him, looking up at him wide-eyed.

"Explain!", John growled, unwilling to dwell on just how glorious the sight was, "Now."

"I...I thought it'd be wise to...to get you in the mood before I...", Sherlock stuttered, clearly thrown by John's harsh reaction, "before I settled my debt."

"Settled your debt? Jesus, Sherlock, is this still about this morning?", he asked incredulously, angrily.

A hesitant nod.

"And just how had you planned on "settling your debt"?", John asked cuttingly, the air quotes heavily implied.

"I was going to perform fellatio on you", Sherlock responded in a voice that was barely a whisper.

"Excuse me, WHAT?", John's irritation had subsided somewhat, replaced by utter confusion now. "Why would you do that?"

"Well John, as you might be well aware, I can hardly use my hands", Sherlock commented sarcastically.

The blond man just stared at the man in front of him, gaping as he was trying to process what was going on.

Sherlock broke the silence, determination back in his voice: "So, if you would just...pull your trousers and pants down, it'd be rather conducive to - "

"NO!", John snapped at him, feeling the sudden urge to slap Sherlock across the face. "No, Sherlock. You can't just - ...Do you not understand that sex is not a trading good?! Jesus Christ, really."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then lowered his gaze to the floor as he mumbled: "What a luxury if you think that..."

"What was that?", John's voice took on a softer tone. "And for heaven's sake, please get off that floor."

Sherlock sighed as he got to his feet only to fold himself down on the sofa across from John. He looked defeated. "I said that it must be a true luxury to think that sex is not a trading good.", he repeated, resignation apparent in his voice. "That's all it ever has been, for me."

John swallowed hard. "What do you mean? Don't tell me you performed sexual favors for..."

"Used to.", Sherlock emphasized, then took a deep breath. "And only if there was really no other way. For information...and...other assets. Sometimes."

"Other assets?"

Sherlock's lips were pressed into a thin line.

Then it hit John: "Bloody hell, Sherlock! Don't tell me you sucked cock for DRUGS!"

At the harsh words, hurt was instantly visible on all of the detective's features - he wasn't even trying to conceal it. They sat in silence for a while, lost in thought.

Finally, John spoke, his voice calmer than he felt: "I don't care what you did in your past, Sherlock, but I will not - and I repeat WILL NOT - stand by idly if you should ever sell yourself to anyone, for anything, EVER again. And I will most certainly NOT accept sexual favors from you as compensation for anything. EVER. Are we clear?"

Sherlock pouted, but nodded, resembling a scolded child.

"And if it is so goddamn important to you, I will try to think of how you can pay me back for my taking care of you, even if it is utterly unnecessary, alright?", John added whilst getting up to head for his room, desperately needing to put some space between him and his flat mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm constantly delighted by all your lovely comments and continued support, thank you so much! <3


	14. A Musical Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""What is it?", Sherlock muttered in a perplexed manner, obviously confused as to how exactly his behavior from earlier had now earned him a present.  
> "It's a cure for your boredom and it's how you'll be repaying me, if you so wish.""

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After so many of you lovelies have expressed their pity for Sherlock, I decided to give him a little bit of a break (and a challenge) ;)

 

Once John had left the room Sherlock reclined on the sofa, letting his upper body hang off the edge of it, blood rushing to his head immediately. This was getting unbearable. Within the past 48 hours he had not only been cleaned and wiped and sponged like a bloody infant, had not only accept a pity-hand job from his flat mate and best friend, had not only offered his body to said man and been harshly rejected, but to top it all off, he had now also spilled the filthy secret of his pathetic past and angered the only person he had ever loved.

He had honestly thought that by offering John some physical release after intentionally getting him worked up would be a welcomed - if rather unconventional - way of evening the playing field. He did, however, have to admit that he hadn't been quite all that selfless when suggesting to suck John off - the mere idea of it still made him heavy with desire, much like it had the second he had kneeled down in front of his friend.

It could have been a win-win situation: he would have had one of his most sought after fantasies fulfilled and relieved his conscience about using John for sexual gratification, all the while his blogger could have enjoyed some nice daydreams while having a warm, wet mouth on him (one that, as he had been informed in the past, was considerably talented indeed). And afterwards, neither of them would have had to feel awkward anymore and they could have just moved on, couldn't they? But then John had to come in and ruin it all, with his bloody morals and unrealistic views about sex and romance!

Sherlock was frustrated, aggravated even - but then again, wasn't that exactly one of the aspects why he loved John so much? He was the only one who could ever make Sherlock feel like things had meaning, had a purpose. Like HE had a purpose - like he deserved better. No one else had ever told him that, treated him like that, and now he felt utter sadness creep up on him for disappointing John the way he had.

Still lost in thought, Sherlock eventually started to drift off into a restless limbo between the waking and the sleeping world.

 

***

  
He woke from the sheer awareness of a presence looming above him. Upon opening his eyes, he realized it was John who was standing mere inches from him, looking down at his face with stern determination. Sherlock sat up and experienced a moment of dizziness as the blood drained from his head back into the rest of his body.

"Here", John stated matter-of-factly, holding out a small rectangular box, "This is for you."

"What is it?", Sherlock muttered in a perplexed manner, obviously confused as to how exactly his behavior from earlier had now earned him a present.

"It's a cure for your boredom and it's how you'll be repaying me, if you so wish."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and watched as John opened the small box for him. Inside of it was a harmonica, made of beautiful, sleek black material with silver accents. It looked almost vintage, definitely used but well kept.

John elaborated: "It was my grandfather's. He loved playing that thing, and he was pretty skilled at it, too. Unfortunately I didn't inherit any of his talent and never quite figured it out. You, on the other hand, brilliant mastermind and musical genius, will most likely teach yourself within a matter of hours."

They both smiled at that, knowing it was true.

"I understand how hard it must be for you not to be able to play your violin right now", John continued, "and I know this is a poor substitute, but I thought you might like to give it a try. You should be able to manage just fine, even with your casts. Holding it with your fingertips shouldn't be a problem, and the rest of it is all down to oral expertise, anyway." He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Sherlock blushed significantly at this less than subtle reference to other oral services he had offered to John just a couple of hours ago.

The detective stared up at his friend in something like disbelief, unable to grasp just how, no matter what awful thing he did, John still never ceased to be anything but kind and amazing to him.

A small "Thank you" crossed his lips, then he carefully picked up the instrument with the very tips of his fingers, clamping it between both of his hands. He successfully brought it close to this mouth and gave an experimental blow, resulting in a terrible, half choked noise.

Both men were startled for a second, then started laughing. "Well, I guess you have some practicing to do", John smirked and Sherlock was delighted at the spark in the other man's deep blue eyes.

"Do you want me to pull up some instructions on the internet for you?", the shorter man suggested, but was instantly shut down by Sherlock: "No, I'll figure it out. Can't trust those imbeciles on the world wide web anyway."

John smiled at him, then turned to walk away. He was almost out the door when Sherlock asked: "So what did you want me to do? You know, you said this is how I could repay you, if I wanted to, so....how?"

"Learn how to play it, then compose something for me."

 

***

  
Although it was nothing like his beloved violin, Sherlock found that he actually quite enjoyed the harmonica. Admittedly, it had never been an instrument he had ever been particularly interested in, but the fact that John had given it to him, despite (or maybe even because of?) the sentimental value it clearly held to him, had instantly rendered it infinitely more appealing. The harmonica was sleek and unassuming, but when handled with proper care and expertise it was capable of the most magnificent of sounds - and for a second, Sherlock indulged in the (frankly ridiculous) thought that on some metaphorical level, he identified with the instrument.

Fully immersed in his new challenge, the rest of Sherlock's afternoon and evening as well as the entire next day were spent trying to teach himself how to play the harmonica, interrupted only by such necessities as food consumption (although his appetite had diminished significantly, now that he'd found a task to occupy his mind with), hygienic rituals with the help of John (Sherlock found that the humiliation hadn't ceased since the first time he'd had to use the bathroom and it momentarily ruined his mood) as well as a ridiculously large amount of sleep (as per his personal doctor's orders).   
  
The mad genius was proud that he'd figured out the basics of the mouthorgan rather quickly, but realized that acquiring the level of finesse he was striving for would require its fair share of rehearsal and fine-tuning. He was adept at playing songs of advanced difficulty by the end of the second day, and started his composition process at the beginning of the third.

By the fourth day - after carefully making sure to compose only when John was gone, in the shower or otherwise clearly out of earshot - Sherlock had finished his piece, unusually proud of it and anxious to perform it for his flat mate. He would never openly admit to such a thing, but he'd poured all of his (useless, distracting) emotions into it, paying tribute to John as well as to all of his sentiment towards the man. Upon practicing the entire song for the final and last time, he even felt vulnerable, exposed in such a raw way that he quickly considered dismissing the whole thing and starting anew. But then he realized that John would never be the wiser about his motivations and intentions, and he felt safe enough to go through with it. After all, John did deserve a special piece - and that was just what he was going to get, even if he might never notice it.


	15. Recital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After he was finished, Sherlock - who had had his eyes closed whilst playing - looked at John expectantly, a nervous smile indicating that he wasn't certain at all what reaction to anticipate. It wasn't until John tried to speak that he realized he had been holding his breath."

 

For John (and probably poor Mrs Hudson, too), the first few hours after he had presented his grandfather's harmonica to his flat mate were spent attempting to counter the screeching out-of-tune noises emerging from 221B with earplugs and loud music, and he was quickly beginning to question the wisdom of gifting Sherlock an instrument.  
Once the detective had clearly gotten the hang of it though, the then much softer and more melodic tunes actually had a rather calming effect, and John found himself simply laying on his bed and enjoying the musical backdrop.

When Sherlock approached him to announce that he had finished composing and was ready to recite his piece for John, the blond man was excited and strangely flattered, even though it had been his request in the first place.

They sat down in the living room, facing each other. John leaned back and crossed his legs in anticipation as Sherlock readied himself to play.

Straight from the beginning, John was captured. The tune Sherlock had created was - simply put - marvelous. As he caused the most remarkable notes to emerge from the small instrument, filling the room with a sense of wonder and awe, John watched and listened in utter astonishment. He felt like his entire universe had just been condensed to this one melody, a harmonious string of sounds that perfectly united a myriad of paradoxes: it was both passionate and reserved, intriguing but strangely predictable, splendidly exciting yet comforting at the same time. John was blown away - never in a million years had expected THIS, hadn't presumed that he could ever be moved so profoundly by just a simple song.

After he was finished, Sherlock - who had had his eyes closed whilst playing - looked at John expectantly, a nervous smile indicating that he wasn't certain at all what reaction to anticipate. It wasn't until John tried to speak that he realized he had been holding his breath.

"That was...beautiful, Sherlock", he said and his voice was rough, throat unusually dry, "absolutely amazing, brilliant!" He felt stupid for trying to express the range of emotions he was experiencing in just a few simple words, so he tried again: "I... I had no idea something so innately perfect, so wonderful and enticing and just... I didn't know that existed."

Sherlock's face lit up at that and small words were formed by those lips: "That's why it is YOUR song...".

John watched him blush and quickly avert his gaze, and he had no idea how to interpret that. Rather than dwelling on it, he decided to go on: "I wish my grandfather could have heard this. He would have loved it."

"Yeah?", Sherlock inquired gently and it didn't strike John as odd at all that the detective seemed to suddenly be taking an interest in another human being, one that he didn't even know personally at that.

"He was a great man.", John continued, feeling melancholic as he was overcome by childhood memories for the first time in a very long time, "Not everyone thought so, of course. To most people he was just a loner, a strange old man who had been a widower for far too long in their eyes - some called him bitter, said he was devoid of love and incapable of human emotions. But they didn't know him like I did. It's true, he rarely let anyone see the man he really was - I guess he just didn't care too much for most people. But those whom he granted access to his heart were in it forever. For reasons I never quite understood I was one of the lucky few, and I can proudly say that he was one of the wisest, best and most human people I have ever had the privilege of knowing."

John's eyes filled with unshed tears as he was suddenly taken back to the day of his grandfather's funeral when he was only 21. Not many mourners had shown, the entire scene had bordered absurd as empty words and meaningless phrases had been strung together by a complete stranger in a way that certainly would have been deemed utterly ridiculous by the deceased, and that were devoted to a god he had never believed in.

Almost instantaneously, the image shifted somewhat, changed gradually until John found himself in front of another grave, at another time.

_"You...you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Umm...there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human...human being that I’ve ever known..."_

John ran a hand through his hair, trying to blink away his tears and swallow the knot in his throat. This was hardly the time or the place to let all these feelings, the hurt and the mourning and the belated confessions well up again. He looked over at Sherlock, and the tall man was staring at him with an intensity that caused his heart to jump a beat.

"I understand", Sherlock said, barely audible.

"What?", John asked and his voice broke - he wasn't used to his friend expressing understanding in regards to any sentimental subject matter.

"Why he let you into his heart." Sherlock paused for a moment, looking thoughtful and almost scared. Then he continued, and his baritone was deeper, smoother than usual: "I presume if he were to compose a song about you it would have insinuated all the warmth, the kindred spirit and the comfort he saw in you. It would have been an ode to the smartest, bravest, strongest person he knew, to someone he was proud to call his grandson and whom he loved more than he was probably ever able to express to you."

Sherlock held his breath as he reflected on his own words for a second, then quickly added somewhat awkwardly: "You know, in a way that's perfectly natural for a grandfather to love his grandchild, obviously."

He cleared his throat and gave a crooked a smile, and it was too much, all too much for John.

It was almost as if he was watching himself from far above as he got up, walked over to Sherlock, knelt on the sofa cushion next to him and then gently cupped his face, slowly but determinately pulling him close. He licked his lips - once, twice - and searched for an answer, anything, in those hypnotizing eyes. When his  counterpart let his eyelids flutter close and parted his full lips slightly in response, John finally poured all his feelings into a long, sensual kiss.


	16. Full Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was all he had ever wanted, all he had ever dreamed about, yet John just couldn't stop his brain from contemplating, evaluating, reconsidering. He suddenly broke the kiss as a terrifying thought struck him, and Sherlock looked hurt at the abrupt loss of contact."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your delightful comments on the last chapter - the kiss really has been a long time coming and I know I'm evil to have made you wait this long ;)   
> So I'm thoroughly hoping that this chapter won't make you turn on me now... ;)

 

They separated and both men were left breathless, staring at each other while trying to process what had just happened.

"That was...", John started, awkwardly.

"Yes...", Sherlock agreed hesitantly.

"...nice", John finished, at the same time as a deeper "...unexpected" filled the air between them.

They smiled at each other, trying to melt away some of the tension that threatened to arise.

"Was it really?", John then inquired about Sherlock's statement, "I mean...did I misunderstand this? Did you not just basically profess your...uh...sentiment towards me in a rather Sherlock-ian way? Because if not, I apologize profoundly. But if yes...then this reaction wasn't all that unexpected, was it?"

"You...uh...you understood that quite correctly. I just...didn't expect you to - reciprocate."

"Oh." John couldn't believe Sherlock had still been oblivious to his feelings about the man, even after everything that had transpired between them recently! But apparently he had been rather inept himself at identifying - let alone interpreting - Sherlock's emotions.

"Well...I do. Reciprocate. Quite...a lot."

John couldn't help a silly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched Sherlock's wide-eyed disbelief; watched the man he had admired from afar for so long, the man who had caused him more pain and more joy than anybody else in his life, the man he had just bloody kissed, for Christ's sake! And despite its sensuality, despite the soft, hesitant movements and the absence of any tongue - despite its utter innocence, it had been the most earth shattering, revealing, mind blowing kiss he had ever engaged in. And if he was lucky, this was only the beginning.

"I can't believe you, of all people, didn't know that.", he continued, laughing softly while stroking a thumb over Sherlock's cheek.

The detective leaned into the touch, then closed his eyes again, muttering: "Sentiment. Not really my area."

"Uh huh? You don't say.", John smiled affectionately. "For it not being your area you did fairly well though, expressing your feelings just now."

"Don't be silly, John. That was just a song." The tremor in his voice and the fondness with which he nuzzled John's hand betrayed his statement profoundly.

"Oh yeah? Well in that case...this was just an error of judgment, a slip of lips...", the doctor teased, starting to pull away from Sherlock.

He was instantly stopped by an intense gaze and a cast-clad hand on his chest. "Don't you dare", Sherlock growled, "only took me four years to get here."

_Four years? Bloody hell, don't tell me he's been feeling this, WANTING this for almost as long as I have! Bloody fucking sociopath, couldn't have let me know earlier? Like - oh, I don't know - before he bloody died and let me mourn and regret and almost marry another person?? Bloody. Damn. Stupid. Ignorant. Amazing. Beautiful. Incredible. Wonderful man!_

John opened his arms invitingly and let out a deep sigh as Sherlock leaned into them, leaving them in a comfortable, no-words-needed embrace.

 

***

  
They had just been reclining on the sofa like that for a while - John cradling Sherlock between his legs and arms, the detective's back resting against the other man's chest - the rhythms of their breathing attuned, each reveling in the warmth and proximity of the other. John's fingers had idly been trailing up and down Sherlock's arms, while the latter had rested his head against the crook of his blogger's neck. It was as if they had never sat any other way, as if they had always been meant to fit together just like that.

Despite the sheer bliss of the moment there was something that wouldn't stop bothering John, that had been on his mind for the last few days now. He decided that he needed to know before he possibly ventured any further into - whatever this was with Sherlock. Not that it mattered, really, but he'd prefer to have all the facts to make appropriate choices.

Somewhat uncomfortably, he broached the subject: "Sherlock? Can I ask you something?"

"Hnnngh." The other man was busy inhaling John's scent at the base of his neck.

"It's...sort of private."

He felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms. "I guess now that you've kissed me you've earned the right to ask private questions, John."

"Right. Well...So when you said the other day that you...used to perform sexual favors for...uhm, assets..."

Damn he hated thinking about this, let alone bringing it up. He didn't WANT to imagine Sherlock in such compromising situations, selling himself, letting others use him like that. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone being anything but respectful and loving to this incredible man, and even less could he stand the idea of the great consulting detective feeling so inadequate, so unworthy that he had somehow considered such behavior justifiable. But now that he knew about it, that Sherlock had confronted him with the very fact (would he have preferred to be left in the dark?), he couldn't just NOT think about.

Sherlock huffed, clearly unhappy with the choice of topic.

"...do you mind telling me what exactly...uhm what it is that you had to... used to do? I...I don't want to pry, I just - "

"It's alright John", came the biting reply, "if it helps fuel your imagination...."

"Don't you DARE say that", John retorted angrily, "I don't LIKE imagining you like that, I hate it, in fact. It pains me. I guess I just - want to know everything about you, especially in - well, that area...considering..." he trailed off, then circled his arms tighter around Sherlock in a reassuring manner.

Sherlock sighed, then decided to answer: "Oral and manual stimulation. I never did anything else."

An audible exhale. "Okay."

"And no, I never derived any pleasure from it. Sex had always seemed like such a dreary, pointless aspect of human nature to me, I never understood why people insisted on pursuing it so actively - until I discovered the power it held. I knew that what I was doing was appalling, degrading, but it wasn't like anyone cared - no one ever cared about me - so I saw no point in stopping to benefit from sex the only way I ever thought I would."

It hurt to hear Sherlock express such self-deprecation and he loathed the world - society, people - for making this brilliant man feel so insignificant and undeserving.

"Oh Sherlock... I've always cared about you." It was the understatement of the century.

"Yes...I think on some level I must have always known that. That's why I haven't done it since you came into my life."

"That's not quite right", John chided, "I remember a certain someone wanting to compensate me for a favor by getting on their knees just a few days ago..."

The man in his arms groaned: "That. was. different.", he insisted, piercingly articulating every word for emphasis.

"Oh yeah, how so?"

"I...well, I sort of...actually wanted to do that." John didn't have to see his face to know that it was flushing bright red at the confession, while his own blood decidedly started rushing the opposite way. He still would have never taken advantage of his flat mate like that, but the idea that Sherlock, on his knees in front of him, had actually desired him, had WANTED to pleasure him... - he couldn't believe how incredibly more arousing than any fantasy he'd ever entertained he found this thought, now that it constituted a somewhat real possibility.

"You're still an idiot for even thinking I'd let you do that. Definitely not as payback, and not when I didn't know how you felt about me, either." He kept the conversation going while trying very hard to ignore the fact that Sherlock's arse was mere centimeters away from his now half hard cock.

Sherlock only grumbled something in response that sounded a lot like "bloody morals", but he decided to let it go.

Instead, he felt it was time to share a little secret of his own: "Just in case you're interested, however, I wasn't all too opposed to the concept in general. You know, in a different context, of course. But when you had me imagine someone I found attractive, I..."

"You were thinking of a man", Sherlock stated what John had officially declared himself that day.

"...I was thinking of you", the doctor finished his original sentence and enjoyed the obvious element of surprise he seemed to have provided, as Sherlock went completely silent for an entire minute.

"I was thinking of you, too.", he finally declared, and John reacted with a confused "Hmm?"

"That morning when you...in bed. I'd had a dream about you."

Oh god. And here he had been, worrying about the thought of whom could have possibly left Sherlock so aroused, jealous that it could have been The Woman he had been fantasizing about, when in fact...

"Jesus."

"Not quite."

They both chuckled before Sherlock twisted sideways in John's arms and tilted his head up, hesitantly leaning in for another kiss. John gladly obliged, pressing his lips tenderly against those plush ones, moving them in unison as his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's neck. John's tongue running over the detective's lower lip posed a question that was answered with a small moan and the resulting parting of lips, granting him access to a hot, wet mouth.

This was all he had ever wanted, all he had ever dreamed about, yet John just couldn't stop his brain from contemplating, evaluating, reconsidering. He suddenly broke the kiss as a terrifying thought struck him, and Sherlock looked hurt at the abrupt loss of contact.

The shorter man took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he had instantly realized he would have to address: "Sherlock...", his voice broke a bit, "In the spirit of full disclosure...I just - I don't know where this is going, or where you want it to be going, but I feel like I should let you know that I....I don't know if I can start a romantic relationship with you right now. Not until I can be absolutely sure that this, for you, isn't just a psychological byproduct of your current dependence on me."

There. He had said it. And although it had been a painful statement to make, he knew it was a viable risk that he couldn't just ignore. The stakes were simply too high.

Sherlock seemed confused, and somewhat offended: "I can assure you it's not, John. I have been...feeling about you this way for a considerable while now."

"I believe you, I really do. But there must be reasons why you have decided to ignore those feelings until now - maybe you don't really want this, maybe you don't want a relationship, and everything it entails. Maybe you don't want to be governed by your feelings, Sherlock. And maybe you do, - god, I hope you do! - but I don't honestly think I can fully trust you with that decision until our circumstances are more...normal again."

"But why, John, why?" Sherlock pouted.

"Because, Sherlock. Because I don't think you understand that if I lose you again - in any way, in THIS way - it will kill me. Probably literally this time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will get better again (eventually), I promise! - I just can't resist a healthy dose of angst... o_o


	17. Trying Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be that how it may, he thought to himself, clenching his jaw in determination, he was going to respect John's wish - but now that he'd already gone this far, revealed this much, he was also going to bloody prove to his flat mate that he stood for every single thing he'd said and done - and so much more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So relieved none of you have vocalized any death threats (yet) after me slowing things down in the last chapter! Instead I received such wonderful feedback again and just wanted let you all know collectively how incredible you are! Thank you! :) 
> 
> This chapter sort of serves as a bridge - I hope it still has enough content to keep you interested! :)

 

They had retreated to their separate rooms, Sherlock being the first to get up and leave after acknowledging John's wish for distance with a curt nod - before he had even fully processed the implications of what the other man had been saying. He had been too overwhelmed by the sheer amounts of emotion he'd been confronted with, but he implicitly trusted his friend with this decision, decided to respect it even if maybe he couldn't quite comprehend it. After all, John clearly had more expertise and credibility in regards to sentiment than he probably ever would.

It was mind boggling to think about how within just the last hour, his world had both finally been completed and then come crashing down. Despite his deduction of the previous days indicating that there was a chance John might be in love with him, he hadn't actually dared to believe it, had been hesitant to let a mere notion fool him into such dangerous territory. But then the wonderful doctor had seen right through his song, his stupid and uncharacteristic but oh so cathartic ramblings about John's grandfather, and love and - and then he had kissed him, and Sherlock had been so shocked he had actually forgotten to breathe for a moment.

Even if John DID love him, he had never once expected him to act on it! Loving Sherlock Holmes was a ridiculous, an unworthy and reckless endeavor, and John was neither of those things. John always did the sensible thing, the right thing - and this, no matter how right it had felt, couldn't be what would make John happy, could it? HE could never be enough to make John happy, he was sure of it, although he knew he would die trying.

Despite his doubt he had enjoyed the moment, painfully aware that it might be fleeting. As it had turned out, he didn't have to wait very long to have his fear confirmed. John had come to his senses, had realized that he'd made a mistake, had backtracked instantly. Blamed it on Sherlock's circumstantial inability to make a proper decision. It's not like the detective couldn't guess where he was coming from - he was infuriatingly aware that he had lost any right to ever expect John's trust again when he had so utterly deceived the man just over two years ago. John claimed he couldn't trust Sherlock's judgment (but ultimately that meant SHERLOCK, didn't it?) right now, but the detective had his honest doubts whether that would ever change, even after his casts came off and things went back to how they used to be.

Be that how it may, he thought to himself, clenching his jaw in determination, he was going to respect John's wish - but now that he'd already gone this far, revealed this much, he was also going to bloody prove to his flat mate that he stood for every single thing he'd said and done - and so much more. He loved John, yearned to finally be with him, and no longer wanted to suppress his feelings for the man who meant the world to him.

 

***

  
The first bath after admitting their feelings to each other and then deciding (or reluctantly agreeing, in Sherlock's case) to not rush into any sort of relationship until things were back to the usual way was - mildly put - tense and awkward.

As he had done numerous times before now, John untied Sherlock's dressing gown for him while the taller man watched intently. It took him mere seconds to deduce that John was more nervous now than he had been even the first time: his fingers were trembling, his ears red and flushed, his breathing deliberately controlled. He shuffled his feet more than normal and avoided eye contact. It was endearing, really.

Once the detective was seated in the tub and John ran the sponge over his body in a manner that was decidedly and purposely not erotic, still not locking eyes with the other man, Sherlock couldn't stop the cold, aching feeling that started to spread in his chest, leaving him with a tight throat and pleading eyes.

"Please...John." He didn't really know what his intention was himself, he just needed to say something.

The doctor finally looked at him, incredible sadness and no longer concealed longing apparent in his eyes.

Gradually, Sherlock started to lean closer to the man who was perched on the side of the tub. "Can I...kiss you?", he whispered.

For a moment it seemed as if John was going to consent, cohesive powers already tugging at his upper body, but then he squared his shoulders resolutely: "No." Then, gentler: "No, Sherlock, please...please don't make this any harder for me than it already is."

After a short pause, he added, as if feeling the need to explain: "I liked kissing you far too much to be able to risk losing it again."

"But you WON'T." Sherlock knew it was pointless to keep reinforcing his point, John didn't trust him just yet, and that was just that. It was frustrating, infuriating even.  Anger interlaced his tone as he suggested: "Fine. Will you touch me, then?"

John gave a laugh that was both incredulous and bursting with sadness. "What?"

Sherlock huffed: "You said you didn't want a romantic relationship just yet, you never said anything about a physical one."

"Sherlock, I - "

"Oh don't tell me you can't have sexual relations without being in a relationship with someone. I have observed you bring home too many airheads from the pub whom you had clearly just picked up that night and planned on never seeing again to believe that.

"Well", John got defensive at the mention of his rare sexual escapades, "this is different. I didn't lo... - have feelings for any of those women. Therefore the sex was meaningless. With you, it wouldn't be."

"Yeah? Isn't this moral high ground a little belated, considering you jerked me off just a few days ago?" Sherlock didn't mean to sound so harsh, and he usually didn't resort to such crude language, but sometimes he just didn't UNDERSTAND John.

The blond man was gasping for words: "That was...that was a bloody favor, as friends! I had no idea about your feelings for me then, and fully expected it to be a one-time occurrence!"

"So...it wasn't meaningless then, either, was it?" The concern was obvious in the detective's tone, and he loathed himself for sounding so small.

"No.", John had started to calm down again, getting a grasp on himself, "no, it wasn't. For me, at least. I just had no clue that it wasn't, for you, either. To be honest, until then, I didn't even think you actually...you know. Had sex. Of any sorts."

Sherlock wasn't surprised at that assumption - it was mostly correct, after all. He just shrugged and smiled apologetically.

"So... do you?", John prompted.

"Do I what?", he was acting purposely clueless.

"Have sex? HAD sex? Ever?"

The detective sighed heavily: "If you're getting at my performing favors again..." He'd REALLY prefer to not discuss this topic any further. He wasn't proud of that chapter of his life, and the last thing he wanted was to provide his possible future lover with more reasons to doubt the sanity of such a venture.

"No. I mean REAL sex. You know, with someone you like, someone you actually WANT to do it with....you both get off, that sort of thing. Not as a trading good."

"Oh. Well, then - no." He wasn't ashamed to admit it - it had never been an aspect of his life he'd ever found particularly disadvantageous - but now, here with John, he suddenly started to get nervous. What if the clearly much more experienced man was turned off by the fact? What if he didn't want the burden of potentially being Sherlock's first real partner? He swallowed and only managed a tight: "Problem?"

He was reassured by the affection in John's eyes and his hand, which came to rest lightly on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Not at all."

As relief washed over him, Sherlock wondered if John realized that he had been the first - the only - person to ever bring him to climax, no matter how impersonal he had thought it at the time.

 

***

Although the tension between them was still tangible, obviously fizzing with sparks and forbidden thoughts, Sherlock could tell that John wouldn't budge on his resolution, so he tried his best to contain himself and not bother his friend about any sort of "inappropriate" behavior again. Furthermore, he concluded that it might be a wise attempt to keep his physical attraction to John at bay regardless - at least for the time being - considering how he REALLY wanted to avoid another bodily predicament he couldn't currently take care of himself. Instead, the rather determined detective poured all his energy into establishing once and for all that he was serious about his feelings towards John.

 

Tuesday, exactly three more weeks until the casts would finally come off:  
  
John couldn't take any more days off work and had returned to the clinic for an arrangement that had him come in for morning shifts (when Sherlock was still sound asleep anyway) and process paper work from home in the afternoons. He mostly retreated to his room for the latter, wanting to be undisturbed and safely distanced from the distraction Sherlock proved to be now more than ever.

On this particular day, Sherlock decided to prove his affection for his flat mate by preparing a nice dinner for him. Obviously, he could hardly do so himself, seeing as how he was incapable of carrying, moving or cooking anything with his casts. He had, however, had John's favorite meal (Spicy Lasagne) delivered from Angelo's and then contracted Mrs Hudson to set the table for them according to his specifications. He ordered the poor woman around until everything was arranged to his utmost satisfaction ( _"The candle a little more to the right, yes...no, no, no, not THAT silverware! The nice one, with the engraving!" - "Water glass here, wine glass there...and a straw in mine." - "No, I won't need a plate, I won't be eating. This is about John, I wouldn't want him to have to feed me. How counterproductive!"_ ).  
When their landlady had finally ventured back down to her own flat after wishing him a "successful evening" and winking conspiratorially, Sherlock was rather pleased with the romantic setting they had turned the kitchen into. He picked up his harmonica and played John's song until the other man came to join him - like he knew he would - and then reveled in the expression of sheer wonder and surprise (and only a minimum of suspicion) that invaded the doctor's face upon the sight he was greeted with.

  
 ***

Monday, two more weeks and one day until cast removal:

When Sherlock got up to pee at 07:15, he could tell just from looking out the window that for the first time of the season, it was an unusually cold morning. He could hear John in the kitchen and deduced that he must just be finishing up breakfast, about to leave for the clinic. Standing by the flat's door, the detective waited patiently until John approached to slip on his jacket, about to head out with a quick "Oh, g'd morning Sherlock. Did you need anything? I'm off, you should go back to sleep if you can." The taller man halted the doctor in his tracks by blocking his way and then smiling fondly as he clumsily picked up his signature blue scarf from the coat rack by extending both of his immobilized hands, and proceeded to place the item in question around John's neck. Only slightly perturbed by the inopportune fact that he wasn't able to tie it for the other man, he contented himself with advising softly: "Here, you should wear this. It's unusually cold outside."

John looked up at him, startled, as his fingers reached to trace the soft fabric: "But that's your scarf."

"Well, I'm hardly going anywhere as of right now, am I?" His tone was bemused, yet not unkind.

"Uh...Thanks", John muttered and headed out the door, but not before looking back over his shoulder to flash his flat mate a genuine, if slightly confused, smile.

Sherlock proceeded to check the weather every morning from here on out, awaiting readily by the door to perform the same scarf-giving ritual every time temperatures dropped below a certain point. John never questioned him about it, but rewarded his friend with increasingly bigger smiles and appreciative nods. By the fourth time around, Sherlock even observed him from the window as he walked down the street, nuzzling his face into the soft blue fabric and inhaling the scent of its usual owner.

  
 ***

Friday, one more week and four days until regaining manual control:

Case work had been slow, considering the detective's unwillingness to leave the flat (due to the fact that all the shirts he deemed appropriate to present himself in public with were rather too tight around the sleeves to accommodate his casts) and the indisputable truth that those cases which COULD be solved from home were generally boring and unexciting.  
Finally, Lestrade had taken pity on Sherlock and come by to drop off some particularly gruesome cold cases that the handicapped man could ponder over in his living room.  
As the inspector regarded him in his dressing gown and asked how he was holding up, Sherlock replied with a sigh: "I'm fine. As long as my mental capacity isn't impaired I can live with temporary physical drawbacks."

Then, after a  moment's consideration, he added: "John's...been great. Mrs Hudson, too, they're both extremely helpful, but John... he's wonderful. He goes above and beyond to ensure my well being, physical and mental, and it's...really quite extraordinary." He smiled absent-mindedly, then quickly narrowed his eyes at Lestrade: "DON'T tell him I said that."

Sherlock knew his words had the desired effect as he watched the D.I. walk onto the street and pull out his mobile, quite obviously composing a text, before climbing into a cab. He had meant everything he'd told the man - he just usually wouldn't relay such information about his sentimental state to anyone.

This case, however, was benefitting a greater good and even though John never mentioned it, he seemed remarkably pleased when returning from his shift that day.

  
***

Monday, one day until clinic appointment to remove casts:

"So...are you excited about tomorrow?", John inquired, causing Sherlock to look up from the cold case file on a millionaire's wife who had been abducted and then returned exactly 51 days later, unharmed and without any threat or black mail to her family.

"Why would I be excited about tomorrow? Because it's November 2nd, the first Tuesday of the month, the 306th day of the year, International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists, or because it's the anniversary of the foundation of the BBC Television Service?"

John rolled his eyes. "Because your casts will be removed tomorrow!"

"Oh. That. Completely forgot about that.", Sherlock replied in a deliberately bored tone. This was what they did on a regular basis: the detective pretended not to care about significant dates or events and John humored him, even though he clearly knew better.

"Well, you'll finally have your independence back", the doctor stated and Sherlock felt scrutinized under his intense stare, suddenly overwhelmed by an unexpected sense of nervousness.

"Dull.", was all he could manage around the lump in his throat. _His independence. His credibility in matters of sentiment, as far as John was concerned. He'd regain his autonomy, things would go back to the way they used to be - and Sherlock would still love John. Would the doctor finally believe him? Hadn't he proven it enough already? And would John still love Sherlock? Maybe HIS emotions had only been brought on by Sherlock's condition? Maybe they had appealed to some sort of primal instinct within the humanitarian? And maybe tomorrow, when he'd be able to take care of himself again, his status would immediately be reverted to "annoying, arrogant flat mate and smart arse colleague"..._

With a heavy internal sigh Sherlock decided that of all the emotions he had had the (mis)fortune of experiencing lately, nervousness was definitely amongst his least favorite ones.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was actually a funny coincidence when I thought of a completely arbitrary date to declare the day Sherlock's casts would be removed and then researched random facts I could make our detective associate with said date - turns out, the date I had picked just so did happen to be the anniversary of the BBC - fate? haha ;)


	18. Splints and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""I hate this as much as you do, believe me", he continued, voice steadier than he felt, "I just don't know if I can allow myself to trust you yet... I HAVE noticed everything you've done these past weeks, Sherlock, and Jesus, you were so kind and considerate and wonderful! I believe that you THINK you want this, that you are convinced of it...I just - it's hard for me to trust this, to trust - "
> 
> "To trust me." Sherlock's tone was grave and he withdrew his hands from where they'd still been wrapped around John's, having ceased their squeezing long ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay - life has its ways of catching up with you at the most inopportune of times ;)
> 
> This chapter was fun and intense to write, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

 

"I can't believe she's seriously making me wear THESE for another week!", Sherlock exclaimed the second they left the clinic, raising his arms - which were now endorsed by splints - in aggravation.

"Another week MINIMUM", John corrected him, and was rewarded with a disdainful glance and a low growl of "NOT helping."

"It's just for immobilization purposes, Sherlock", John tried to calm his friend down, "Your metacarpals were fractured pretty badly, you were lucky you didn't need surgery in the first place, and this is just another provision to ensure a proper healing process. Anyways, you can take them off to shower or use your hands whenever absolutely necessary - that's an improvement, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked like he was about to offer a biting retort, but to John's surprise he neither pursued the argument he'd undoubtedly already mapped out in his mind, nor did he show any inclination to simply disregard the doctor's orders and take off his splints right that second. John attributed this rather commendable behavior to the myriad of nice things Sherlock had been doing for him lately and, not for the first time, was actually quite pleased by this novel sensation of being - what, flattered? courted? - by the detective. He flashed his brightest, most appreciative smile, then held the door open for Sherlock to get into their cab.

  
***

"Have you done any of your therapeutic exercises?", John asked while plopping down at the kitchen table across from Sherlock, who was bent over a carton of milk, a potted plant and some matches with a pensive expression and decidedly unprotected hands. The man neither answered (which John took as a clear "no" to his question) nor acknowledged his blogger's presence at all, for that matter.  
  
John sighed and leaned back, arms crossed in front of his chest: "You know, you're really only supposed to take those splints off whenever it's entirely unavoidable, Sherlock."

The man looked up at him and said in all earnest: "John, I know you might not realize the importance of this, but it IS utterly essential that I test the propensity of milk-infused Rhododendron Simsii leaves for the sake of - "

" - the case, I know, I know." Sometimes Sherlock's enthusiasm for The Work could be endearing, but more often than not it was just plain stubborn and annoying. "Seriously, Sherlock, at least do me the favor and work in some hand therapy while you already got the splints off anyway. Please?"

The mad genius put down the pair of tweezers with which he was currently plucking at the stem of his plant with an audible exhale and glared at his counterpart: "Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"Give me your hands", John instructed and extended his own across the table.

Sherlock did as he was bid and placed his large hands in John's sturdier, smaller ones. The doctor regarded them with great intensity and interest. Over the course of the past weeks they had turned even paler than usual, and looked more delicate and fragile than John had ever seen them. He grasped Sherlock's long fingers gently, then ran his thumb over the soft skin. "Try to squeeze my hands", he encouraged, "carefully."

Sherlock slowly wrapped his fingers around John's hands, then gradually applied some pressure. His clutch was weak, hesitant, lacking strength from weeks of muscle regression. "Alright", John nodded, "now repeat this motion rhythmically".

Sherlock's hands were pulsing around his own like a beating heart, and the two men momentarily lost themselves in the strangely beautiful and metaphoric visual their entangled fingers provided.

Suddenly overwhelmed by this unexpectedly intimate encounter, John had to swallow hard while trying to get a grip on the emotions that washed over him. It seemed like an eternity had passed since they had kissed - some days it even seemed like it never really happened at all. Although John hated being apart from Sherlock like this - holding back, being strong, not giving in - and found it infinitely harder now than it had been before (before they had kissed, before they had declared their feelings to each other), he knew it had been the right choice to make. He just had to be absolutely one hundred percent certain that this was something that his friend truly wanted, too, before he laid the whole of his heart (his body, his LIFE) into those elegant hands.

Once again, Sherlock seemed to have read his mind, for he locked eyes with him now, blatant insecurity apparent in his gaze and tone:  
"So...things are almost back to normal now, wouldn't you say? I mean...I'm no longer dependent on your help..."

"Hmm", John hummed in agreement and then raised an eyebrow in an implicit prompt to go on.

"Well, I was just wondering when.... - I mean, how much longer...", he was at a rare loss for words and shot his flat mate a desperate look.

_When will I finally believe in you? How much longer do we have to keep up this charade  before I can rest assured that you want this just as much as I do? Before we can finally just BE together? I don't know Sherlock, I just don't._

"I don't know, Sherlock", he said out loud and cringed as his words visibly destroyed the small sliver of hope that had veiled the detective's eyes.

"I hate this as much as you do, believe me", he continued, voice steadier than he felt, "I just don't know if I can allow myself to trust you yet... I HAVE noticed everything you've done these past weeks, Sherlock, and Jesus, you were so kind and considerate and wonderful! I believe that you THINK you want this, that you are convinced of it...I just - it's hard for me to trust this, to trust - "

"To trust me." Sherlock's tone was grave and he withdrew his hands from where they'd still been wrapped around John's, having ceased their squeezing long ago.

"Yes." He sounded defeated, and John hated himself at this moment for not being able to give Sherlock what he wanted, to make him happy.

"But John, I won't let you down. I have never loved anyone - I didn't think I was capable - until I met you. I have loved you for a long time, John, even if it took me a while to realize it, and I love you now, more than ever. And I promise you that as long as you are in my life - and even beyond that - I will continue to love you. I won't leave you. You have no reason to believe that you will ever lose me." Although his deep baritone had taken on an almost pleading quality, heartbreaking even, the words spoken caused sudden anger to well up within the doctor.

"You know what? That's EXACTLY what I thought a little over two years ago! You HAD to be dead, it HAD to have been real, because you'd have absolutely no bloody reason to leave me just like that, right? I didn't know you loved me then, but I was certain that you cared for me enough to not just disappear like that, that I could trust you to not just walk out on me like that! But I was wrong, wasn't I? You broke me, you made me mourn and regret and CRY - for two bloody years I cried almost every night, did you know that?! - and you ALMOST killed me there. And although I was angry, I couldn't even hate you - because you were dead, weren't you? And then you came back - bloody hell you came back and despite the miracle it was, despite how happy I was to see you again, it was a painful revelation more than anything: you'd been lying to me - for two goddamn years you'd been lying to me! Do you know that that was the one thing I always clung onto after your death? That I knew you wouldn't tell me a lie. Hah right!", he huffed in  a bitter laugh, "well wasn't I just naive?!  You left me once, who's to say you won't do it again? And THAT, Sherlock, that's exactly why I have a hard time trusting you now!"

He didn't know he'd been crying until he felt a tear drop from his jaw, hitting the top of the table almost audibly and in what seemed like slow motion. Just another tear to add to the pool of them he had already shed for Sherlock. Was this ever going to stop?  
John hadn't exactly planned on venting like this, hadn't even consciously made those connections in his mind yet - but here he was, staring into the wide-eyed face of the man who had hurt him so much, and it felt glorious to have finally placed the truth between them.

After a moment's deliberation, Sherlock spoke: "I...I'm sorry, John. I thought we'd left this behind us, thought you had forgiven me...but then seeing as how that day, in the tube, I might have somewhat coerced you into forgiving me under the pretense of false circumstances, it makes sense now that you'd still be  - so affected. I bereaved you of your chance to properly work through your anger and disappointment with me..."

"Bloody well you did!" John's blood was still boiling.

"So do it now. I beg of you, let out your anger, your frustration and everything else you might be experiencing, because maybe then you will finally be able to grant me real forgiveness."

Dumbfounded by the blunt invitation, John stilled the nervous clenching of his fists and simply stared at his friend, his mind suddenly blank. "I...uh...what?"

"Rant, scream at me, throw things, punch me again if you must", Sherlock elaborated generously, "Just...if you could spare my hands, that'd be great..."

He was being completely serious. John couldn't believe it - how did the man have the audacity....! He couldn't just release all his pent up anger like that, it wasn't as easy as pushing an eject button! He glared at the dark-haired man who sat in silent anticipation, prepared to do and accept absolutely anything to help him get through this.

Apparently the smart detective realized that he would require a little more encouragement and direction, for he got up from his chair and went to stand right in front of John. Then, with a voice that was deliberately cold and biting, he provoked: "I betrayed you. I lied to you. When I lay on the pavement and pretended to be dead I could hear your voice and I felt your hand on my wrist and I DIDN'T MOVE. I could hear the tears and panic in your voice and I didn't do as much as give you the smallest of signs, any indication that it was all a trick. Even though I easily could have."

John shot up from his chair and closed the distance between him and the other man, his breathing starting to become heavy, his stance positively threatening.

"You....", he growled, but the detective already went on:

"I made you mourn for me. You cried and talked to my gravestone and prayed for a bloody miracle - and you know how I know that? Because I watched you. I watched you by my grave, more than once. On particularly favorable days I could even hear your words, the sweet praise and sad regrets you spoke to a cold stone, some dirt and a body that wasn't mine."

"That's it!", John exclaimed and pushed against Sherlock's chest with the flat of his hand, kept shoving him backwards with increasing force until he hit the wall.

Grabbing both of the taller man's wrists and pinning them to his sides, John inched even closer until his shorter body was flush with the other man's and his mouth almost touched Sherlock's ear. "You...", he whispered in a rough, ragged voice, "...you fucking arrogant arsehole! How dare you ridicule my pain, my loss - everything I've gone through! No, everything you've MADE me go through!"

He took a deep breath, then hissed as he locked eyes with Sherlock, who at least had the decency to look intimidated now: "You had absolutely no right to watch me in those moments of privacy, to NOT reveal yourself to me!"

Both of their breathing was labored now, filling the air between them with almost tangible apprehension.

"You had no bloody right...", John bit down hard on Sherlock's neck, causing the other man to yelp in surprise, "...to die on me! No right...", he bit again, a different spot this time, leaving an obvious, red mark, "to break my heart like that!"

Sherlock was wreathing, wriggling under John's stealthy grip and the pressure of their bodies pressed together. It wasn't until the doctor pushed a thigh up between his mate's legs for purchase that he noticed the other man's erection and a wicked thought started to form...

"Oh, you LIKE this, huh?", he mocked, still no less furious, and watched as Sherlock swallowed in response.

"Is it just the pure physical contact after weeks of sexual tension?", he paused for effect, "Or is it the fact that I'm in charge right now, hmm? Which is it, Sherlock?"

No answer, just a small whimper.

"Are you that starved for touch? Or do you just like it when I'm rough with you?" John's voice was a deep rumble, menacing and domineering. "Answer me!", he demanded and let go of one of the detective's wrists in favor of yanking his head to the side by his thick hair, exposing a long white neck.

"I...uh...both", Sherlock managed to squeeze out, his voice unusually hoarse.

"You have no right to be enjoying this!", John stated and bit down again, digging his teeth into tender flesh, earning him a loud groan. He then let his other hand travel down between their bodies, palming Sherlock's cock through his trousers.  
"Where do you get off, hmm - lying to me, leaving me, abusing my trust and then getting hard like THIS, huh?" He squeezed roughly and Sherlock moaned - a wanton mess under his unrelenting hand.

"Maybe you thought I'd let my anger out on you by pushing you down on the floor and fucking your face - fucking your mouth for every lie that has ever escaped it, hmm? Is that what you want?"

His words were met with whimpers, indicating neither agreement nor disagreement - just simple need.

"Or did you think I'd bend you over and fuck you until you begged me for mercy? That I'd pound into you applying the same force you ripped my heart apart with? Did you really think I'd be that easy on you?"

Another moan, and John could tell that Sherlock was close to coming from just the friction of his hand alone. He instantly withdrew, letting go of the other man completely and taking a step back to admire the masterpiece he had created: a desperate, needy, panting puddle of want and desire - so hard for him, yet meeting him with eyes so utterly devastated and sad and apologetic . Good.

"I'm done with you for now", John tried to keep his voice calm, steady, "Go finish yourself off, if you must. You have your hands back, after all."

With that he turned on his heel and left the kitchen, heading for his bedroom.

Once there, he immediately collapsed onto the bed, feeling more exhausted than he had in days. He ignored the fact that he, too, was sporting a considerable bulge in his trousers and instead covered his face with his arms.

Before today, he had honestly thought that he'd forgiven Sherlock - and he was still convinced that he had: as a flat mate, as a colleague...maybe even as a friend. He had forgiven him for leaving, and lying, and then returning without ever offering a real explanation. But he had never forgiven him as the single most important person in his life, the only person he'd only ever truly loved - he hadn't gotten a chance to, it had never been relevant before - until now, until the prospect of their romantic relationship was finally within reach, looming over them in both its glory and its intimidation all at once. He hadn't wanted to be so harsh on Sherlock, to be so downright mean to him - but the detective had been right (as per usual): he had needed this. In a way, maybe they both had.

 

***

  
Sherlock was bent over his experiment again when John reentered the kitchen a considerable while later - although it was clear that the genius hadn't progressed much, as he was still plucking at his plant with shaky hands. He looked up at his friend with soft, questioning eyes.

John walked up to him, stood next to his chair and left his fingers run through the seated man's hair lightly. "I'm sorry", he whispered.

"You feel better?", Sherlock asked sheepishly.

"Yeah."

"Then you don't have to be sorry.", came the response in an earnest, determined voice.

John swallowed - sometimes Sherlock was so wonderful, so grand and kind and selfless of a person without even realizing it that he just wanted to cry with the sheer privilege of knowing the man. Instead, he pulled the detective's head close and cradled it against his stomach, burying both his hands in his hair and caressing it gently.

"I forgive you", the doctor whispered and knew that he meant it. Sherlock hummed, wrapping both his arms around the other man's waist.

"You want to know why you can trust me that I'll never leave you again?", Sherlock asked against John's stomach, his voice thick with emotion and barely audible, "Because even the first time around, even then I did it for YOU, John Watson. I did it to save your life - you would have died in my place if I hadn't. I did it because I loved you, and because I wanted you to be alive - and happy. Everything that I have ever done, it's been for you. I fought for you, killed for you, endured torture for you. And now that you have informed me reliably that your happiness is with me, I will do my damndest to ensure you're never anything BUT happy again."

"You idiot!", John mumbled, but couldn't hide the smile that spited his words, "you couldn't have told me all that BEFORE? Would have saved us some time and energy here, mate!"

He let go of Sherlock's head, crouched down next to him and kissed that infuriating, oblivious, incredible and amazing man.


	19. Feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock was greedy, wanting to take in all of John at once, and if he'd had use of his hands heavens knows what he might have done with them just then. But maybe it was good, being forced to explore his new lover (his first lover, his only lover) one sense at a time, to focus and indulge, rather than devour. After all, they still had a lifetime ahead of them, didn't they?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys have endured so much angst, hopelessness and desperation that I think a proper resolution is in order, don't you agree? ;)
> 
> This chapter is PURE UNADULTERATED SMUT. If for some reason that is not your cup of tea, consider this your fair warning ;)
> 
> Also, for the sake of sparing me from having to write in a discussion about save sex, we will assume that both men have been tested recently (probably on Sherlock's account - secret agenda after a doubtful experiment?), are clean and have disclosed said fact to each other.
> 
> Alright, conscience cleared - enjoy!

 

They hadn't stopped kissing since. They had moved to an armchair, then the sofa. They had interrupted for food and bathroom breaks and because John made Sherlock clean up his experiment as the milk started to smell foul, but other than that they hadn't ceased kissing  each other all day.

There had been sweet kisses, apologetic and forgiving kisses at first. There had been kisses whose sole aim it was to attempt to make up all the time lost between them. There had been kisses filled with passion and fire and tongue. There had been kisses that were all John, and those that were all Sherlock. The detective couldn't recall ever having felt so content and blissful in his entire life.

The doctor had made him put on his splints again, but made sure to compensate for Sherlock's manual immobilization by actively utilizing his own hands. His touch was gentle now, much unlike the one he had used on Sherlock against the kitchen wall - its appeal was different from what had aroused him earlier that day, but no less impactful: reassuring, tender, full of promise.

There were fingers in his hair, stroking, caressing, a hand wrapped around his neck, massaging softly. A single digit tracing the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips, the shape of his brows, the stubble on his chin, the shell of his ear. There were hands running up and down his chest, a comforting presence in their solidity and strength. Fingertips, teasingly sliding over every accidentally exposed piece of skin - a collarbone, the flesh right above his waistband, the small of his back.

Sherlock himself was restricted to exploring John with his mouth - placing small kisses all over the blond man's face, trailing them down his neck and back up to his ear. Gentle nibbles, licks and huffs of hot air were followed by lavish kissing and sucking, leaving love marks on tender flesh. Sherlock was greedy, wanting to take in all of John at once, and if he'd had use of his hands heavens knows what he might have done with them just then. But maybe it was good, being forced to explore his new lover (his first lover, his only lover) one sense at a time, to focus and indulge, rather than devour. After all, they still had a lifetime ahead of them, didn't they?

Despite the deliberately slow pace they were setting, it didn't take much until Sherlock realized that although most of him was positively melting under John's tender touch, there was one distinct part that eagerly started to harden again. He had only needed a few strokes - executed as roughly as he could manage with his weak hand - in the bathroom earlier that day to relieve himself of the intense state of arousal John had so involuntarily and effectively jostled him into, but it had been an act of pure necessity, shameful and not the least bit satisfactory. Now, however, his desire was quickly starting to rebuild, aching for John's touch and closeness.

Sherlock was trying to hide the discomfort of his tightening pants, ashamed of his neediness, certain that it hardly constituted an appropriate response to their relatively chaste snogging and caressing. When he let out his frustration by attacking the very spot on John's neck right behind his ear lobe he had discovered to be particularly sensitive, the detective, however, quickly deduced from the doctor's incessant wriggling and heavy breathing that he was in a rather similar condition.

If he could have, he would have slid his hand between them at this point, wrapping his fingers around John's clothed erection, desperate to feel the proof of his want. Since he couldn't, though, he just contented himself by whispering into his partner's ear, voice low and raspy: "You're aroused..."

"Hmmm yes.",  the reply was breathy.

"Would you... I mean, should we...? I'd like to..."

John nodded, looking at his detective with heavy lidded eyes, their usual sparkle swallowed by the lusty darkness that had invaded them. "Not here, though. Bedroom?"

"Bedroom", Sherlock agreed and scrambled to get up, leading the way to his room.

 

***

 

Standing next to the bed, the two men resumed their kissing, easing into this strange new territory. Lips still locked, John started undressing Sherlock slowly but with calm steadiness, only pausing when he got to the taller man's splints.

"Here", he said, looking up into his eyes, "I'll take these off for you for now - but that doesn't mean I want you using your hands, okay?"

Sherlock was slightly confused. Surely it would complicate this whole endeavor significantly if he wasn't allowed to use his hands? He had never actually been intimate with another person in - well, a REAL, mutual way, but from his theoretical knowledge and private fantasies he knew that hands could certainly proof advantageous in a myriad of such scenarios. "Why...why not?", he stuttered.

John gave a small chuckle. "Well, first of all, you still got to be very careful." He unfastened Sherlock's right splint and cautiously, almost seductively, pulled it off, tossing it to the floor. "And secondly... you said you've never really BEEN with anyone, never done anything other than...well, you know." The detective's second splint followed the first, and John wrapped his hands securely around Sherlock's now exposed ones. "So for your first time, I would like to show you what it's like to be on the receiving end of pleasure. I...I want you to just FEEL. Alright?"

Sherlock's chest tightened as he nodded almost shyly. John was so good to him, so caring and considerate and simply lovely - and he had no clue how he possibly deserved any of this. He was actually rather relieved that John had proposed to take the lead, for he wasn't sure whether he could have handled being a proactive novice at this physical act while succumbing to the constant and highly unprecedented influx of emotions he was experiencing at the same time.

John had almost fully undressed him, with the exception of his pants, through which the doctor was now gently cupping his cock, massaging him as he placed little kisses all over Sherlock's chest and shoulders. As he hooked his thumb under the waistband of the taller man's pants and looked up questioningly, Sherlock reassured him with a barely whispered "please", suddenly nervous and anxious and excited all at once at the prospect of being completely revealed, so utterly vulnerable in front of his still fully clad lover any second now.

John pushed down his pants in one fluid motion, then stood back a bit to let his gaze travel up and down the length of Sherlock's body. The detective fidgeted slightly, uncomfortable under the stare but also impossibly more aroused by it. His doctor's gaze came to a halt at Sherlock's prominent erection, red and flushed and leaking, and his facial expression changed from curious and amazed to a wide smile. "Beautiful", he muttered, and Sherlock had never known a single word, three syllables that were nothing but a simple compliment could ever make him feel so special, so loved.

Blushing, he couldn't stop his own silly grin as John walked him backwards a few steps and had him sit down on the edge of the bed, providing Sherlock with a front row seat as he slowly began undressing himself.

It wasn't as if he was deliberately putting on a sexy show - those were just the plain, methodic and routinely practiced movements of a man who had undressed himself for almost 40 years now - and yet it constituted the first time Sherlock was ever privy to witnessing such an intimate act and to him, at that very moment, it was one of the sexiest and most seductive things he'd ever seen.

Once John was just as naked as the detective, standing in front of him in all his glory, he couldn't help but think that this man must be the most perfect creature to ever walk the face of this earth. Despite the few pounds he had clearly put on since his army days, he was still sporting a perfectly shapely, muscular body - his frame and proportions in appropriate unison with his short height, his stance upright and forever evident of his military training, his cock thick and heavy, standing just as proudly as the body it was attached to.  
  
Sherlock had never been particularly interested in nudity before - hadn't even flinched when The Woman had greeted him with nothing but her battle dress on - but now he desperately wanted to worship this divine body in front of him - wanted to examine it closely, catalogue all of it, get to know its every crease and wrinkle and freckle. Most of all, he wanted to SHOW John how gorgeous he was, how attractive and how incredibly appealing to the detective's every sense. But he knew he'd have to wait with that - for now he was only allowed to feel, not to touch; to see, not to discover. It was the sweetest torture he could possibly imagine.

"Scoot up", John demanded and Sherlock complied. The blond climbed onto the bed with him, then started crawling over the length of Sherlock, trapping his body between muscular thighs, placing a hand on each side of his reclined torso. Breathless, Sherlock looked up at the other man, whose face was now hovering closely above his, warm air hitting his lips on each exhale. They stared at each other for a long moment, enjoying the anticipation that was heavy in the air, each wrapping their heads around the fact that this was truly and undeniably happening - finally.  
  
Then John kissed him - a slow, careful venture at first that was quickly cheered on by soft moans and breathless gasps. Sherlock shuddered with desire as John started licking into his mouth, coordinating an incredibly talented tongue around it as if it were a matter of life and death - and upon imagining said mouth, said tongue around a different part of his body altogether, Sherlock was met with a storm of arousal that had him whimpering and trembling instantly. He felt John smile against his lips, then that beautiful mouth moved down to his neck, sucking and nibbling at spots Sherlock had had no idea could be so erogenous. He wasn't given a lot of time to dwell on the discovery, as John's hand snaked up to his face and caressed his neglected lips gently, before slipping two fingers inside the detective's mouth.

He was surprised, but immediately began caressing the digits with his tongue, glad to be allowed the exploration of at least this small bit of John. His fingers tasted of soap, and tea, and cinnamon and just the pure essence of the man. As Sherlock began sucking on them, positively fucking them by moving his mouth up and down their length, he was astonished by how incredibly erotic he found this simple act. John, who had moved his mouth to cover one of Sherlock's nipples, toying with it teasingly, groaned and rolled his hips down against the other man's, providing desperately wanted friction for both of them. Sherlock let out a small cry and pushed his pelvis up in search of more contact, more pressure. Finally, the doctor obliged and withdrew his fingers from the mouth they had invaded, only to bring them down and close them around both of their shafts, pressing them together and stroking slowly as he shifted his attention to the other nipple.

The damp heat and pulsing thickness of John's cock against his own made Sherlock go lightheaded - never before had he felt anything but the grip of his own fingers - and John's, just that once, recently - against his prick, and he was overwhelmed by the sensation. Hesitantly, he started moving his hips in accordance with the pace John had set, indecisive whether he was more aroused by the friction itself, the incredible sight of his doctor above him, clutching onto both of them, or by the sonata of moans, whimpers and gasps they were both composing involuntarily.

Suddenly John paused and crawled down on the bed a bit further to settle between Sherlock's thighs before resuming stroking him - now just him. He was placing little kisses around the detective's hips and thighs, slowly circling in on the patch of dark hair that surrounded his cock. Sherlock held his breath in anticipation - no one had ever put their mouth there, he didn't think he'd ever WANT anyone to. Yet here he was, all but begging for it with his eyes, the clench of his fists, the cant of his pelvis - and although of course he never would, wouldn't push John into doing anything he didn't want to, but suddenly all that mattered in this world anymore was the thought - the prospect - of John's hot mouth around -

"Ooooh my god", he groaned, addressing not a deity he didn't believe in but rather John, who had just traced the bottom of his prick with his tongue.

"Alright?" John looked up at him somewhat concerned, and Sherlock reassured him with a feverish nod.

"I...You should probably know that I've never done this before, so apologies if....". The doctor, ever so confident in terms of sexual context suddenly seemed unsure, nervous even.

"I assure you it will be perfect", Sherlock was breathless but smiled at his partner's uncertainty, then added with a crooked grin: "And it's not like I've got anything to compare it to myself."

At that, John seemed to regain his confidence and took to exploring the head of Sherlock's cock, applying his tongue and lips in ways that rendered his previous statement of inexperience almost unbelievable - then again, Sherlock assumed he'd probably been on the receiving end of this particular act plenty of times to at least have picked up on some of the theory.

Sherlock watched his partner fondly as he took care of him with such utter dedication and enthusiasm. Jealousy briefly washed over him as he considered whether the other man had bestowed this same kind of devotion on his other - no, his PREVIOUS - lovers, but then decided that it didn't matter. If he had anything to say in this, there would be no more other lovers from here on out and he would do his very best (research, practice - he was a quick study after all) to ensure that John would never yearn for anyone else again. When John relaxed his jaw and began swallowing Sherlock's length down his throat, the detective's speculations were dispelled into thin air as he threw his head back with a drawn out moan, reveling in the sheer novelty of this sensation.

After the first tentative tries, John quickly established a rhythm and began sucking him in earnest, his fingers digging into Sherlock's thighs for leverage. The detective himself was fisting the sheets - ignoring the slight pain that shot through his hands at the harsh and rather unplanned reaction - and biting his lower lip as he gave himself over to pleasure unconditionally. Entirely reduced to a whimpering, moaning, panting mess, this was one of the rare occasions during which he could discard himself completely of his mind's constant interference and give full reign to where ever his transport wanted to take him. And right then, his transport wanted him to meet John's mouth with shallow thrusts of his hips, reciprocating every of the other man's groans with one of his own, and inching closer and closer to orgasm with every swirl of tongue, every hollowing of cheeks.

"John...", he panted out with desperation lacing the word, looking down at the other man who presented an incredibly beautiful sight with his cock in his mouth, positively gagging on hit, flushed cheeks, sweat pearling on his forehead and tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock hoped that John understood this single plea of his as what it was meant to be: a notice that he was going to come soon - and not knowing the etiquette of...this, uncertain whether John would want him to come in his mouth, he considered it only appropriate to issue a warning.

John released him for a brief second, caught his breath and then panted: "'s alright...come for me, Sherlock. I want you to." With that, he descended onto the detective's twitching prick again, working it even more feverishly than he had before. Sherlock could feel the pull in his scrotum, the tension coiling in his stomach, could feel the first tell tale signs of orgasm and he clenched his jaw tightly, tilting his hips upward in search of more stimulation, more mouth, more John. As he felt a spit slick finger probing at his entrance before slipping inside just barely, it constituted the final factor he had needed to push him over the edge. Muscles contracted, his entire body quivered and a primal noise escaped his throat as he came forcefully, spilling himself into John's readily awaiting mouth.

For a moment, the detective thought he might just lose consciousness, overwhelmed by the intensity of his climax as well as the passion with which John sucked him through it, greedily swallowing down all of him. Sherlock hadn't expected him to - he had been forced to perform said act himself once during one of his less fortunate sex-for-drugs-encounters and he remembered it as an entirely unpleasant experience; the bitter taste, the sheer amounts of it that were covering that walls of his abused throat, the utter degradation of being used like that... He shook the distasteful memory but was still no less impressed (flattered? delighted?) by John's selfless gesture, feeling somewhat shameful for having enjoyed the notion quite this much. Determination filled him to reciprocate just as eagerly as soon as John would let him.

Finally the blissful haziness that had clouded his mind subsided and Sherlock pulled himself back into reality, opening his eyes to John. The man had sat back onto his heels and was wiping his face, which held traces of a myriad of bodily fluids; semen, spit, tears, sweat. His expression, however, was one of pride, achievement and...arousal. In his post coital state Sherlock had completely forgotten that John's desires had yet to be addressed, and he quickly sat up, gazing at his lover inquisitively.

"That was...incredible", he felt it was appropriate to voice his satisfaction, although the evidence clearly spoke for itself. John smiled and leaned over for a short, still breathless kiss.

"What can I do for you?", Sherlock asked, shyness suddenly invading his tone again.

The shorter man shook his head. "Nothing. Remember? This was about you.... I'll just..." He reached for his own prick and gave it a long stroke, causing him to hiss and his eyelids to flutter closed upon contact.

"Are you sure?", Sherlock felt bad, he didn't want to leave all the work to his friend.

"Mmhmm", John reassured him between groans, "I like you watching."

Sherlock had to bite his lip at that simple statement, already wondering how long his refractory period would be as arousal started to creep back into his bones.

He had to admit that he rather enjoyed watching John, too. The man was so entirely expressive even when performing the most mundane tasks - observing him in this state of utter undress, tending to such a private need with skilled and practiced tugs and pulls was one of the greatest privileges Sherlock could fathom. This image would most definitely earn its very own room in the detective's mind palace - or, to be more precise, in the wing of it that was solely dedicated to John. It'd be a room holding nothing more than a bed, with John on it. The curtains would be drawn, letting in the first rays of morning sun, and the protagonist would be backlit just slightly, emphasizing his strong and powerful silhouette while framing the movements of his hand as a single point of focus. The room would be filled with the scent of tea and John and sex, and with the sounds of his pleasure. Existing in a complete vacuum, it would function as a place of retreat for Sherlock - a place offering peaceful comfort and profound arousal.

Eyes fixed on John - right there in front of him, panting - Sherlock couldn't hold back as he spoke, voice low and even: "So many times I've wondered what you'd look like...When I would hear you masturbating in your room."

John met his gaze, but didn't cease his movements.

"I wondered...what you were thinking about, and if I walked in on you, how you'd react. Whether you would let me watch, whether you would mind me getting hard from the mere sight of you. Whether you'd let me help you out..."

The doctor's strokes were quickly gaining a rougher, more frantic quality as he was clearly enjoying the vocal enticement.

"In those moments especially, I realized that I'd do anything for you, John, anything you wanted. Of course I always thought that realistically, you'd just kick me out. So I'd just lie here, right here on this bed, touching myself instead. Thinking of you, John, always thinking of you."

When John came, he was a study in contorted beauty, desperation and ecstasy visibly consuming his every feature, every limb and muscle before relinquishing him into the soft, comforting arms of release and aftermath. It was an extraordinary sight, one that Sherlock could merely meet by pulling the other man into a strong embrace.

As they lay there in a tangle of limbs - John resting his head against the taller man's chest while Sherlock burrowed his nose in the other man's hair, taking in his scent, contentment was ubiquitous in their breathing and barely audible sighs.

"Thank you", Sherlock eventually mumbled sleepily, "that was infinitely better than I could have ever imagined...and I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else but you."

John responded by wrapping his arms around the detective's torso even tighter, humming softly.

"So...when will I be allowed to touch you?", Sherlock asked and placed a kiss on his doctor's forehead.

"When your hands are fully healed and you are allowed to take your splints off permanently. Not one day sooner. Doctor's orders.", John responded in a deliberately stern tone, trying hard to hide the teasing grin that was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock growled, playfully: "Is that so, doctor? We'll see, you might just end up regretting that decision more than you think..."

The detective found that this new, intimate and flirty dimension that had invaded their usual banter was a rather pleasant development indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've done it: you have made me an addict to your continuous, lovely comments and I don't know how I will go on without them once this story ends!!! You are all amazing, that's what I wanted to say with that.


	20. The Art of the Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""If you stay", the deep voice whispered close to his ear now, smooth as honey, "I'll make it worth your while... If only you let me touch you, I'd show you just how much better my hands are doing already.""If you stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just having some fun with this - hope you are, too! :)

 

That night was the first time they shared a bed together - Sherlock's, for it was bigger, had softer (more expensive) sheets and was located more conveniently. Although it would take some time for the detective to get used to John's snoring, and for the doctor to become acclimated to sleeping next to a tall, lanky cover hog, it was the best night's sleep they had both had in a while.

It ended much too early when John attempted to rise at 6:30 in order to get ready for work. Sherlock strongly objected by draping himself over the shorter man, refusing to let him leave.

"Don't go", he yawned, and John would have never expected the proud and self sufficient man to be so - he couldn't quite think of a more appropriate term - snuggly.

"Mmm I wish I could just stay here, with you", he smiled into the head of dark hair.

"Then do it", came the sleepy response and Sherlock burrowed his face into the crook of John's neck.

"You know I can't. I'm lucky they haven't terminated me yet as it is." Having taken off as much time as he had for cases and in order to take care of Sherlock recently, John really was surprised at the fact that he even still HAD a job.

"If you stay", the deep voice whispered close to his ear now, smooth as honey, "I'll make it worth your while... If only you let me touch you, I'd show you just how much better my hands are doing already."

Spoke it and leeched his full lips onto John's skin, sucking with enough force just shy of leaving a mark. The not so unwilling victim moaned and involuntarily raised his hips to meet the comfortable weight on top of his body.

"Sherlock, seriously..." His voice sounded weaker than he had intended.

"I bet you're wondering what my fingers would feel like, wrapped around your cock, aren't you? I think you would rather enjoy it...me stroking you, with just the strength and velocity I now know you like, from observing you yesterday."

Another groan, and John couldn't help but dig his nails into Sherlock's back as his mind and body were battling for superiority ferociously.

"Maybe you're imagining what it would be like if I did to you what you did to me last night, pushed a finger into you right before you came? Would you like that, hmm?"

God. Those incredibly sexy, filthy words, coming from that beautiful mouth, articulated by that seductive voice...directed at HIM! John could hardly believe his luck, surely he must still be dreaming? And if he was dreaming, it would certainly be alright to give in to this, wouldn't it?

He was close to succumbing to his desires when Sherlock suddenly  pushed away and got up in one fluid motion, exuding the same practiced ease and grace that seemed to infiltrate every single one of the his movements. Having slipped into his dressing gown, he turned back around to look at John with a sly grin.

"Too bad you've prohibited any non-essential use of my hands, now, isn't it? I would have just LOVED to make your morning special like that. Oh well, I shall enjoy my newly gained independence and have a shower. Make me some tea, will you?"

His expression was smug, nonchalant, only betrayed by the beginnings of an erection John could spot under that midnight blue gown. The doctor growled in response, both relieved and disappointed at the turn of events.

  
***

They laid in bed together that night, snogging lazily while John was cradled in the taller man's arm. There was no obvious ulterior sexual motive to their kissing, it was merely a tender celebration of their newly found intimacy and closeness - and a relaxing way to end a tiresome workday for the doctor.  
 John found that Sherlock was an excellent kisser, his lips were soft and pliant, his tongue coordinated and curious. The man tasted just what he smelled like - a tantalizing mix of expensive bath products, a faint hint of cigarette smoke (that bastard!), remnants of his overpriced but admittedly rather appealing cologne and something that could only be classified as an air of mystery, omnipresent on all of Sherlock as well as his possessions - his coat, his scarf, his suits, his chair. It was intoxicating and John's senses were overwhelmed by the sheer influx of data as he was just lying there, halfway on top of the man he could finally call his.

Breaking their kiss, John whispered, his voice rougher than he had anticipated: "If I had known that's how you felt about me...We might have ended up here much sooner."

"You see, but you never observe." The words were spoken kindly, fondly, "You should have noticed how immensely important you were to me from the moment you limped into my life."

"I thought you were married to your work. Whatever happened to that?"

"Obvious, John, obvious. You became part of The Work."

John devoured Sherlock's mouth again, feverishly driven by the words so sweet and revealing and just bloody perfect. Draping his leg over Sherlock's and trailing his fingers over the other man's chest, he could feel the heat rising between their bodies.

"John", Sherlock interrupted their kissing again, dropping his voice by several registers. Did he do that on purpose? The doctor was determined to never fully disclose just how much power the detective's smooth, deep voice held over him - just a single word, muttered by those wonderful lips in that alluring baritone would vibrate through his entire being, entice every single one of his nerve endings, cloud his brain with desire and make him want to comply to each of the speaker's wishes unconditionally. Then again, Sherlock - being the brilliant mind that he was - likely already knew, had probably already deduced John's reactions down to the blink of his eye, and was thus fully aware of just what he could achieve through the use of his vocal cords.

"Hmm?" It sounded more like a whimper than a question.

"You know what I would like to do right now?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"I would very much like to divulge a fantasy to you, a proposition for the future. I would like to arouse your mind and body alike, touch you while I tell you what I've been thinking about. I would like to bring you to climax while I whisper into your ear just how I want you, when the time is right..."

"Nnnnghd god, Sherlock...". Just a few sentences, a couple strings of words that had escaped that divinely sculpted mouth and were now floating thickly in the air, wrapping  themselves around John and pulling him into the depths of lust with unfathomable ease.  
Despite the desire that was threatening to consume all of him, John was infuriatingly aware of just where this was probably headed - again. Damn the detective and his sadistic, teasing ways! And damn himself and his bloody morals.

As if on cue, Sherlock continued, seemingly disappointed: "But since we both know that I can't currently fulfill the physical component of this scenario..." He paused, and for a moment it was completely silent in the room except for the rush of blood in John's ears, "...I will leave you the choice: I can unveil my fantasy and you will listen to it, untouched - or I shall forever keep it to myself."

At that, John wanted to jump up and strangle the man; air his utter frustration about this situation. There was no way he could NOT want to know what Sherlock was fantasizing about - could NOT want to indulge in the sound of that velvety voice disclose filthy, naughty secrets to him. But there was also no way in hell that he would be able to survive such sweet torture without physical release.

"You insufferable git!", he complained with gritted teeth. Then, after a moment's consideration, he swallowed his pride, unwilling to dwell on the fact that he was about to grant Sherlock the immense satisfaction and embark on just what he had bargained for,  utterly loathing himself for not having more self-control.

"Can I...I mean, surely, after - I'll be allowed to - ", his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat before continuing, "to touch myself?"

"Certainly I can hardly judge you for what you do or do not do in the privacy of the bathroom, John", Sherlock scoffed playfully.

"Alright", the doctor took a deep breath, "fine. Go ahead, then."

With the shorter man still cradled in the crook of his arm, Sherlock pressed his face to John's forehead: "Well, since you asked for it...", he gave a small chuckle, then began talking - his voice captivating, his tone pure sex.

"Once I'm fully - deployable, again, I would much like to experiment and engage in intercourse with you, where I would assume a more...submissive role."

Despite the detective's characteristically distinguished choice of words, John had never heard anything sexier or more intriguing. His heart  was pounding to his neck, his breathing hitched. The obvious reaction seemed to encourage Sherlock, for he spoke on, a little more daring now:

"I imagine you taking control, giving me orders in that sharp, military tone that you sometimes apply. I...", Sherlock's own speech seemed a little impaired as his inhalation became slightly more ragged, "You would tell me to strip and I would - you'd stay clothed, to establish our power distribution. Maybe you would bend me over the kitchen table, maybe the armchair. Your preference, really. You would hand me some lube and tell me to prepare myself for you - right there, while you watched. God, John, I imagine my hands would be shaking with want for you, as I would look at you, standing there, parade rest, observing me finger myself."

John groaned into Sherlock's chest, painfully aware of the throbbing heat in his groin. He couldn't believe Sherlock - perfectly poised, sophisticated, always superior and dignified Sherlock Holmes - was right here, sharing his fantasy for submission to HIM, John Watson! He was agonizingly torn between loving the man for being so open and incredibly sexy, and hating him for tormenting him so unfairly.

"I'd make certain I'm nice and ready for you, John, but I assure you it wouldn't take long. I imagine you walk up behind me then, fixing my hands to my lower back with a strong grip before entering me. I would want you to fill me with your hard length, to make me yours and break me. I'd be begging you for more, and you'd oblige, gladly - wouldn't you?"

The doctor responded by whimpering desperately and unobtrusively rutting his pelvis against Sherlock's hips for desperately needed friction.

"None of that", the other man growled and stilled John with a sharp glare. "You would set a fast and punishing pace and I'd be moaning your name. Maybe you would let go of my hands and tell me to touch myself then, maybe you would be so kind to let me come alongside you as you fill me, John..."

His voice trailed off as he grinned at John, clearly reveling in the man's utter discomfort and desperation. There was no holding him in bed any longer - awkwardly, he untangled himself from Sherlock, got up and shuffled off to the bathroom, need prevailing over shame by a long shot.

He was only awarded whit a small dose of satisfaction when reminding himself that prior to his departing the bed, he had taken notice of visual evidence suggesting that at least Sherlock wasn't entirely unaffected himself, either.

  
***

 

The next day, John's - frankly rather slow - afternoon at the clinic was interrupted by the buzz of his mobile.

(14:25) _Pick up some milk on the way home from work. - SH_

(14:31) We have two entire cartons of it in the fridge!  - JW

(14:32) _HAD. They were essential to an experiment and are now regretfully tainted. - SH_

(14:33) Wait - how are you able to text, anyway? I swear to god, Sherlock, if you've taken off your splints again just to experiment all day...! - JW

(14:35) _Then what? You know how tedious I find incomplete threats. SH_

(14:39) It was rhetorical! But since you insist: If I find out you've taken off your splints again, I will punish you. - JW

(14:40) _Oh please, don't be dull. - SH_

(14:42) We'll see how dull you think it is once I've pulled you across my lap, pushed your pants down and started spanking you. - JW

 

 

(14:54) Sherlock? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out...I was kidding. Just forget it. - JW

 

(15:00) _I had a minor emergency. No need to worry, I am unharmed. We needed a new microwave anyway. - SH_

(15:01) _So no, your hypothetical didn't freak me out. - SH_

(15:03) No longer a hypothetical, Sherlock, if you've really ruined our bloody microwave! - JW

(15:04) _Ruined might be a bit strong of a term. Slightly impaired? - SH_

(15:06) Sherlock! You just wait until I'm home. I will bend you over my knees and spank that arse of yours until it's as red as your face will be once I make you admit to me how much you like it. - JW

(15:07) _Are you trying to get back at me for yesterday? Please, John, how predictable. - SH_

(15:08) Predictable? That's what every slap of mine will become as I make you count them. But you will never know just where it's about to come down, or how hard. - JW

(15:09) _I don't know what you are hoping to gain from this John, but I assure you I am not affected. - SH_

(15:10) You're not? I bet you're hard already, aren't you?  Just like you will be when you take your punishment. But I guess since you're not affected, I won't have to take care of it for you, will I? - JW

(15:11) And don't even think for just one second that I will let you take your splints off for something so unnecessary as sexual gratification. - JW

 

 

(15:38) _Milk, John. Please. - SH_

 

When John returned home, dutifully placing two new cartons of milk in the fridge, Sherlock looked up at him from the sofa with a pensive, almost curious expression etched onto his face.

John took a seat next to his mad genius and greeted him properly by running his fingers through that dark mop of curls and pressing their lips together in a tender kiss. He reveled in the sheer ability to do this now, whenever he wanted, instead of having to keep his indulgence  restricted to secret daydreams and nighttime fantasies.

With a speculative smile playing around his lips, John gently caressed Sherlock's splints.

"Exactly how many minutes ago did you put these on?", he questioned with a disapproving tone, the sincerity of which was tainted by the inherent joy of having come to know his best friend so well.

"Eight minutes and 36 seconds ago. You took slightly longer than expected today. Miss the tube?"

"Troubles with the self-checkout again", the doctor corrected while shaking his head frowningly. He then glared at Sherlock, well aware of what was going through the other man's head without him even mentioning it. He watched the detective's Adam's apple bob upon swallowing, hard.

Oh, he was going to have fun with this. He thoroughly enjoyed watching Sherlock squirm, keeping him guessing, uncertain of what was going to happen. That alone would be punishment enough.

Raising his arms above his head, John took his time as he stretched out his back thoroughly - playing for time while Sherlock's attention drifted, as expected - before bringing his hands back down on his own thighs with a cracking slapping noise. The man next to him was obviously startled and flinched involuntarily. John had to hold back a chuckle.

He turned towards the detective and placed one hand around his neck possessively, kissing him, hard, while the other hand snaked behind to cup and squeeze his bottom.

"So, how bad is it?", he inquired sternly, breaking the kiss but not pulling back.

"Hmmm?", Sherlock was utterly distraught.

"The microwave. How badly did you ruin it?" He made sure to add a threatening undertone.

"I...uh...it still works. Kind of. If you don't mind extremely under or overheated food - it's rather a hit or miss game, really. Something about the magnetron must have - "

"Sherlock!", he applied his captain voice, "How many do you think it'll take?". He knew the question dripped with ambiguity, catering to his exact intent as he kept his face straight, staring into Sherlock's eyes unrelentingly.

The detective fidgeted, suddenly looking nervous, yet unable to hide the quickening of his pulse (John had unobtrusively placed two fingers of the hand wrapped around the other man's neck on his pulse point) and the dilation of his pupils.

"I asked you something.", John prompted, inwardly congratulating himself on maintaining his composure this well when he was having so much fun with this.

"I...I don't know, John...I've never...I mean, I wouldn't know how many something like this would warrant...I...so...you were really serious about this, then?", he stuttered and the paleness of his face was offset by bright red cheeks.

"I was asking you how many microwaves you think it'll take until you will stop destroying them with your reckless experiments."

"Oh." Sherlock quickly looked away and John finally couldn't hold it in anymore - he burst out in laughter and ruffled a hand through the other man's hair, who looked thoroughly affronted.

"Oh Sherlock", he huffed, still giggling, "I really got you there, didn't I?"

"I wouldn't know what you're talking about", came the stiff response.

John pulled him close by his shoulders and the detective's initial reluctance quickly subsided as he kissed his ear affectionately.

"You didn't honestly think I was really going to spank you now, did you?", he asked in a bemused tone.

"I...no. Of course not. Maybe. I don't know, John, I don't know anything about relationships!"

John squeezed his thigh reassuringly. "Oh, love, it's okay. I shouldn't have toyed with you like that, I'm sorry. It was just so - tempting, after how you teased me all of yesterday!"

Sherlock omitted a somewhat placatory growl - he could understand revenge as a motivator, at least.

"Not that I don't consider it an entirely valid option", John continued, raising an eyebrow suggestively, "and I was serious when I said that I think you'd enjoy it...But I promise you, not until we have reached that stage of our relationship, not until we have negotiated some terms and boundaries. Alright?"

He smiled at his lover, fond of his utter naivety when it came to matters of sentiment and sex. After all, John was well aware that despite the detective's teasing ways of the previous day, which had seen him voice rather specific scenarios that weren't exactly innocent, he was just that - inexperienced, innocent, unsure. And although the doctor had no doubt in his mind that what lay ahead of them was an adventurous road of sexual exploration, he would make sure that they were going to go down that road together, one step at a time.

  
***

  
The next morning had them come into the Yard to take a look at some of evidence concerning a new case Lestrade had called them about. Most of the cab ride there was spent in comfortable silence - Sherlock probably frantically trying to solve the mystery before even assessing the clues, while John's thoughts were occupied with the notion that this constituted their first outing together since the status of their relationship had evolved beyond that of flat mates and friends. He knew it'd be too early to let anyone in on the fact - if they decided to EVER disclose it to the public; it was no one's business after all - but just the awareness of it all filled him with joy and glee. He reached over and squeezed Sherlock's knee affectionately.

The detective drew in a sharp breath at the touch, then quickly checked to make sure their driver was focused on the road before bending over and sneaking a little peck onto John's lips.

The doctor thought his heart might just burst with love, but just as quickly as he had invaded his personal space, Sherlock retreated, looking nonchalant as ever. Right before exiting the cab, he directed an intense stare at John, stating matter-of-factly: "You know, in the absence of manual deployability, maybe you should consider letting me explore...other options."  
He licked his lips seemingly inconspicuously, then stepped out onto the street without another word, leaving John behind flustered and in charge of the fare.

All the good doctor could think about as they regarded, evaluated and discussed different pieces of evidence and crime scene photos, was his lover's less than subtle suggestion. Obviously the maddening genius was being a bloody tease again, making him pay for doing the sensible thing.

The point he had made, however, wasn't entirely negligible- in no way did John want Sherlock using his hands (on him, or on anything else, for that matter) before they were healed properly, but that didn't mean pleasure couldn't be granted through other means, did it? Sherlock seemed more than eager, and for the love of god, so was he. Having this gorgeous, brilliant, sexy creature so close to him; being able to touch him, kiss him, make him come while relying solely on himself for his own gratification was deeply frustrating. He had, however, considered it a necessary, temporary evil - but now that Sherlock had so willingly provided another idea, things might just start to look up. Unless, of course, the detective wasn't actually planning on following through and was merely pursuing a game of tease and retribution...?

Whatever its ultimate intention was, the game continued throughout the day as Sherlock kept on licking his lips whenever he ascertained that John would notice, casting him meaningful glances and even once bending over to whisper in his ear: "The offer stands, John."

It was almost all that John could bear, and when they were alone in the elevator together and Sherlock suddenly pushed him against the wall with the sheer weight of his body, leaned in and traced the perimeters of his lips with a skilled tongue in a tantalizing manner that was more than a bit suggestive, the doctor was left scurrying to their cab while simultaneously trying to hide his blushing cheeks and pulsing erection.

"You are evil", he growled once seated in the vehicle, safely out of sight from anyone who could have deduced the incriminating evidence and used it against him. Anyone but Sherlock, that was, naturally. The tall mean leaned close, keeping his voice to a low and seductive hum:

"If you let me, I will make it up to you once we're in the flat. I would like to explore your body, trace its outlines and discover what makes you quiver. If you let me, I'd like to take you apart, John Watson, and I solemnly swear that I will do it sans utilizing my hands."

John's pulse was racing, evident in his heavy breathing and trembling hand as he touched his fingers to Sherlock's cheek and whispered hoarsely: "By god, I do hope you are serious about this - because I swear, Sherlock, if you are not, I might just go crazy."

Sherlock never responded, just stared at him with captivating eyes until they arrived at the flat. Once inside and having rid themselves of their coats,  however, the detective made good on his promise as he pushed his lover down onto the sofa, proceeding to kneel between his legs with a mischievous grin.


	21. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once the doctor had conducted her routine, examined Sherlock's metacarpals thoroughly and declared him sufficiently healed for unrestrained use of his hands, it was all the detective could do not to grab John by the waist and swing him along as he did a 360 before leaving the room, his coat swaying around him with the decidedly intended, dramatic effect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my lovelies, this is almost it: second to last chapter - I could have made it one, but I decided to split it up, prolong the inevitable just a tad bit longer ;)
> 
> Thank you for your ongoing support - I can't believe you all have actually made it this far along with me! You are amazing, and incredible, and just all sorts of wonderful things! Every kind word, fluffy, funny or sexy moment in this and the next chapter are decidedly dedicated to you! <3

 

Sherlock thought his brain might just explode with all the new information he had managed to acquire and catalogue on John within just the last few days. He was generally rather skilled at maintaining his mind palace organized, but the massive inflow of data tainted by all kinds of emotions quickly made him feel like a mental hoarder on all things John related. He couldn't help it, however, - there was not a single piece of information about the man he loved that he could stand parting with, that he could ever deem irrelevant.

Like the way all of John had felt under his lips, his tongue... Sherlock had never expected that pleasing someone with his mouth could ever be this enjoyable - and from what he'd gathered, John had thoroughly enjoyed himself as well.

At first, the detective had mainly wanted to pursue said course of action to please his lover, to finally reciprocate in one way or the other. He would have been happy knowing his John was satisfied, content - but as it had turned out, the act of providing oral stimulation - which he had previously associated with unpleasant, uncomfortable sensations - suddenly took on a profoundly gratifying, arousing quality with John.

He had loved the way the man tasted, how the skin on various parts of his body felt different under his tongue, how he could evoke the most intensely glorious reactions with just a simple lick, kiss or nibble.  
Sherlock had reveled in the different textures of hair, scrotum, perineum under his lips.  He had treasured the feeling of John's hard, throbbing cock in his mouth - the heady power it gave him, combined with a deep sense of devotion. Despite his utmost expectations, he had even enjoyed the sensation of John's ejaculate filling his mouth and throat, its bitter but not unpleasant taste and, most of all, the look of utter love in his lover's eyes as he had swallowed it all.

Five days had passed since that first encounter - five days during which they had eagerly repeated each of their previous activities, numerous times. No more teasing; instead there had been an enthusiastic application of mouth and hands on the doctor's part, and just his mouth on the detective's. The latter had discovered that having the option so readily available now, he was constantly aroused by his mate, would get turned on by the simplest of triggers.

He'd see John standing in the kitchen, making tea, and suddenly feel the urge to walk up behind him, lean down to kiss his neck and press his hips against the other mans strong backside, initiating a slow grind that would quickly turn into something more. Or he would observe the blogger type away on his laptop - brows furrowed in concentration, his gaze intense and lips flushed from his subconscious habit of biting them - and simply HAVE to follow the magnetic draw, approaching the man with a wanton expression in his eyes and a kiss on his lips that would tell it all.

Fueled by this constant yearning for John, Sherlock's anxiety about finally earning his doctor's permission to utilize his hands again was ever increasing, leaving him in a state bordering immature giddiness the day of his final check up at the clinic.

The cab ride to the appointment was thus filled with wide smiles, overly suggestive wriggles of eyebrows  and the exuberant humming of a slightly inappropriate love song on Sherlock's behalf, as well as the resulting, barely contained giggles on John's.

Once the doctor had conducted her routine, examined Sherlock's metacarpals thoroughly and declared him sufficiently healed for unrestrained use of his hands, it was all the detective could do not to grab John by the waist and swing him along as he did a 360 before leaving the room, his coat swaying around him with the decidedly intended, dramatic effect.

A damper was put on the overjoyed man's mood as John announced that despite everything, he would still have to stay and complete his shift of the day, leaving Sherlock with the uninviting prospect of returning to their flat alone.

As an epic pout and the threat of a sulk of even more preposterous dimensions showed absolutely no effect, Sherlock contented himself with pulling John into a broom closet for a quick, secret snog that left both men breathless, before making his way back to 221B.

  
***  


While waiting for John to return from work, Sherlock hadn't been idle - on the contrary, he took full advantage of his newly regained manual independence and put his best efforts towards preparing everything for his lover's homecoming.

He had readied his - no, their - bedroom by changing the sheets, making the bed neatly and setting the room temperature to a comfortable, if slightly elevated, level (just perfect in the absence of clothes, which was definitely a major part of his plan). He had even considered lighting some candles on the bedside tables for a fraction of a moment, before the ridiculous sentimentality of such a gesture stopped him from pursuing the idea any further.

He had then moved on to ascertaining there was enough food readily available for post-coital consumption (he had already established the fact that John always got hungry after sex), as well as alcoholic beverages, should they be desired.

After quickly tidying up the kitchen and living room (his organizational skills were really rather astonishing whenever he did muster the energy to apply them - which was a particularly seldom occurrence), the great detective focused on bringing himself in shape.

He took a shower and groomed thoroughly, even trying to install some order in the generally arbitrary arrangement of curls on his head. His more or less futile attempts were followed by a much needed manicure, which left his hands superbly soft and his fingernails precisely clipped and filed.

Lastly, he picked out smooth black pants, anthracite trousers and the purple silk dress shirt he knew was John's favorite on him, and waited to put the garments on until just before John was due to arrive, as not to wrinkle them unnecessarily.  

When he finally heard the doctor's footsteps ascending the stairs, his heartbeat quickened and he swiftly assumed a seemingly casual - but in reality thoroughly conceptualized - pose on the sofa: one leg crossed over the other in an overt invitation, one arm resting lazily on his ankle, enhancing the pale of his hand against dark trousers, the other elbow propped on the armrest, his fingers barely touched to a slightly agape mouth.   
  
John walked into the flat, already having shrugged off his jacket halfway, and froze at the sight of Sherlock, a smile spreading across his lips.

"Oh hey there", he greeted in obvious flirtation.

"John", was Sherlock's only, deep voiced response - and he could see the immediate, profound effect the sole word had. The other man's cheeks instantly assumed some color as he hung his jacket, licking his lips subconsciously.

"You uh...look nice", John complimented, his tone already of a hoarser quality.

The detective shrugged nonchalantly, then dared the doctor to come over with just a single bat of his eyelashes.

As John strode across the room and took in its tidiness, his face lit up in delight: "Like what you've done with the place", he joked and flashed Sherlock one of those crinkly-eyed smiles he cherished so deeply.

"Mmm, hope you like what I'll do with YOU, too", Sherlock teased before pulling the other man onto his lap. He savored the sensation of finally being able to cup his lover's face with gentle hands and draw him in for a passionate kiss that was accompanied by long fingers raking through short, blond hair.

It didn't take long for their locking of lips to assume a greedier, more breathless quality, and soon John started rocking his hips down against Sherlock's, causing a series of small whimpers and the eager beginnings of an erection for both parties. Sherlock had just commenced unbuttoning John's soft, forest green shirt (jumper discarded long ago) with nimble fingers as a knock on the door startled them.

"Yuhu, boys!", Mrs Hudson shouted cheerfully and Sherlock responded in the most chilling tone he could muster, while John hastily climbed off his lap and worked his buttons closed again: "Not now, Mrs Hudson. We are BUSY."

"Oh dear", came the slightly desperate response from the other side of the door, "that's unfortunate - oh what do I do now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head vehemently as John - ever the courteous gentleman - approached the door and, after daring the detective to be nice with a penetrating glare, opened it flashing an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, you know how he is. Please, what can we do for you?"

"Oh, John, I really don't mean to disturb you, I'm sure whatever you've got going on is very important..."

"YES", interrupted a deep growl from the couch that merely added to the landlady's insecurities.

"It's just...", she continued, then hushed her voice and gestured vaguely down the stairs, "...you've got visitors, boys, and they do seem rather - persistent."

The two men looked at each other in honest confusion - neither of them were expecting anyone and the timing didn't suggest it was a client, either.

"Uh, sure, bring them up", John shrugged at an utter loss of what else to do, earning him a deep sigh from the sofa.

A minute later, the loud thumping of heavy steps on worn stairs announced the arrival of their guests - and in walked a cheerful, clearly inebriated group of men: Lestrade, Anderson, Gregory, and another inspector whose name had slipped Sherlock's mind.

"We have come", Lestrade ceremoniously announced in a slight slur, "to pick you blokes up to join us for a celebratory beer in honor of Sherlock getting his hams back!"

"His hands.", Anderson corrected overly helpful.

"In honor of Sherlock getting his HANDS back!", Lestrade repeated generously, then grinned at them, expectantly.


	22. A Hands-On Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When John finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was rendered breathless by the profound vulnerability and trust he detected in them. Hastily, he squeezed his own eyelids shut to the beautiful sight and pulled John in for another kiss, afraid that otherwise be might choke up with happy tears or do something equally sentimental and embarrassing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaalright, here we go. I'm so sorry for the delay - especially after ending the last part with such a cockblock! ;)  
> I just got very emotional writing this - not because of the content, but because I don't want this story to end...Although our boys are always the same, each story sees them grow into uniquely different characters of sorts, and it's hard to part with them again. So please, if anything in the following final chapter is sappy or sentimental, blame it on that ;)
> 
> It was a pleasure sharing this piece of work with you, and an honor to have so many of you support me/it with your continuous love and appreciation! :) THANK YOU ALL, you're truly the best!

 

"Remind me, why are we doing this again?", Sherlock growled as they were trotting behind the group of Scotland Yarders, making their way to a popular pub just a few streets from their flat. He would much rather be in bed right now, seducing John and making him melt under his touch. He had never been particularly sociable, and now that it coincided with just about the most desirable alternative he could fathom, the idea was downright abominable.

"Because they were being very thoughtful, Sherlock, and we really had no acceptable excuse.", John explained, but didn't sound particularly excited himself.

"Thoughtful? I think the word you are looking for is drunk.", the detective muttered, then shouted out to the men in front of them:  "Hey, Lestrade - is there any specific reason why you and your colleagues are so considerably inebriated at this hour or is it just standard procedure at the Yard now to cure tardiness and laziness with alcohol consumption?"

John elbowed him, but couldn't hide a smirk.

"'t was Carl's retirement party.", Gregory supplied eagerly, before Lestrade added, "45 successful years at the Yard. Everyone came out to celebrate."

"And the four of you didn't want to end the party just yet.", John concluded and Sherlock could deduce from his tone that he, too, would much rather be somewhere else at the moment.

"Exactly!", Greg beamed, oblivious to the hell he was putting them through as he held open the door to the small but thankfully not extremely crowded pub for his mates.

  
***

  
While John seemed determined to cut this encounter as short as possible by practically drowning his first beer in record time, Sherlock opted for the approach of making their outing as bearable and costly for Lestrade as he could manage by ordering the finest quality whiskey the pub had to offer.

The group's conversation, fueled by liquid courage, had quickly entered rather explicit territory as the cheating habits of Lestrade's wife and Anderson's affair with Donovan became the focus of the discussion. John observed with a bemused expression, still sipping on his beer perpetually, while Sherlock directed his full attention towards unobtrusively touching John's leg under the table. As he slowly inched his hand upward and finally graced a finger over the doctor's prick, remembering how hard and flushed and READY for him it had been not half an hour ago, John choked on his beer in surprise and flushed bright red. Sherlock leaned back with a smug, satisfied smile.

After what seemed like an eternity - but was probably just the bare minimum of what was considered an appropriate duration of stay (Sherlock had to admit he was terrible with such social niceties, so he fully trusted his blogger) - John raised his glass for a decidedly final toast: "Alright mates, here's to Sherlock and his newly healed hands! May he use them for many good things!" As everyone cheered in and sipped their beverages, Sherlock grinned: he had heard the innuendo (had anyone else?) and was getting even more anxious by the minute.

There was, however, one last thing he ought to do: "And here's to John", he initiated a second toast, "who put up with my even more insufferable handicapped self  and took care of me with endless patience." The detective's voice remained steady despite his slight nervousness at this rather public and uncharacteristic display of gratefulness.  He found that the expressions of utter astonishment on the detectives' faces as well as John's crinkle-eyed smile were infinitely worth it. The clatter of glasses filled the air, along with kudos directed at John, most of which fell in the category of "Yeah, don't know how you did it" and "You deserve some kind of metal or something".

They were just about to get up and excuse themselves as a woman approached their table. Apparently acquainted with Lestrade, she politely exchanged some words with him before promptly and rather obviously shifting her attention to John, who sat wedged between the inspector in question and Sherlock.

Watching her chat up his best friend and secret lover in a distinctly flirty manner, Sherlock let his gaze wander her over. She was blatantly attractive - early thirties, petite, slightly shorter than John, shoulder length, wavy hair in a dark shade of brunette. He could deduce all kinds of facts about her within mere seconds - such as that she was likely a teacher, never been married, one miscarriage - but right now all that mattered was that she clearly fulfilled most of the criteria of "date-ability" that Sherlock had established based on John's past conquests. An unbidden sentiment crept through him, something he hadn't quite experienced this strongly before - cold, biting, with sharp claws and an unrelenting grip. Jealousy.

Acting on pure impulse, Sherlock leaned over and extended his arm to the nuisance. "Hi, I'm Sherlock", he introduced himself in a tone dripping with fake nicety. The woman politely returned his greeting, momentarily startled by the blunt approach, then watched with hawk's eyes as the detective descended his hand - right onto John's, which was resting atop the table. Sherlock thread his fingers through the other man's tightly, shuffled just a bit closer to him and flashed an apologetic smile at the intruder - a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't...", she scrambled, looking back and forth between the two men. "Always", she sighed, "should've known." Hurriedly, she spoke her goodbyes, then quickly withdrew from the scene.

Sherlock was lost in the depths of John's wide eyes, which were fixed on his in an expression of utter awe and wonder, and it wasn't until someone cleared their throat that he noticed how quiet everyone around them had become. Breaking their gaze and looking around, the couple was met with four incredulous stares and dropped jaws.

John cleared his throat, then tried a hesitant smile. "Uhm...yeah. Guess that's official now, hm?", he more stated than inquired, looking down at his and Sherlock's hands, still entwined unwaveringly.

"Finally!", Lestrade groaned and broke the ice after what seemed like forever. "Another toast, then, I suppose?"

  
***

  
After another round of drinks, Sherlock and John finally managed to escape the flood of personal questions that had washed over them almost instantly after their accidental outing, becoming increasingly more inappropriate.

Sherlock really didn't care about anyone's opinion, he never had - but knowing that such things were important to John, he was more than relieved at how well the news had been received.

"Let's celebrate", he suggested as they walked through the front door and, without waiting for an answer, crowded John against the wall, drowning him in a deep kiss. Sherlock could feel the shorter man's knees threatening to give out under him, and he cradled him in a strong embrace.

"God, I've been waiting for this all night", John whispered, his voice instantly coarse and wanton.

"Come", Sherlock said and grabbed John by the hand, pulling him up the stairs, into the flat and directly into their bedroom.

Impatiently, they resumed kissing, shrugging their coats off before hands eagerly started tearing at various other articles of clothing. Within minutes, both of them were entirely undressed and Sherlock forced himself to slow down a bit. He wanted to relish every moment of this, didn't want to risk missing a single nuance of this much anticipated experience.

Not for the first time, he catalogued the taste of John's mouth - different, ever different and yet always the same: beer and second-hand smoke tonight. The doctor's tongue darted between his lips in a demanding fashion, penetrating his mouth roughly and with needy precision. Suddenly, Sherlock wondered if this was what it would be like (WILL be like) to be fucked by John and the sheer thought of it made him tremble with desire.

He pressed John's body close against his own, digging his fingers into the other man's shapely arse and moaning at the sensation of his hard cock rubbing against John's. They fit together like puzzle pieces - perfectly balanced, the sharp angles of his taller body being accommodated by John's more muscular, compact frame; his height and long limbs enveloping the shorter man like a protective cocoon.

As they continued kissing each other fiercely, the movement translated to their entire bodies, initiating serpent-like motions of hands, arms, hips and legs that were almost reminiscent of an intimate sort of dance. A slow tango, maybe, Sherlock reckoned and promised himself that one day, he would teach John how to dance - one day, when they weren't so naked and desperate and...

"Oooh", Sherlock omitted a deep moan as he felt John's fingers thread through his hear, pulling tentatively. His cock instantly got impossibly harder and the doctor seemed to have noticed, repeating the action more firmly. The detective had always had sensitive follicles and a particularly responsive scalp, and right now John's tugging threatened to make his knees go weak and his resolution to solely focus on his lover's pleasure was crumbling quickly.

Pulling himself together, he freed  his head from John's grip and pushed the blond man onto the bed. "Let me", he said and it almost sounded as if he was begging. _Let me finally explore you with my hands, let me TOUCH you all over. Let me take you apart, let me make you come, let me make you mine._ They both knew what was implied, he didn't have to voice it (he wasn't certain if he could have, anyway, in his state of arousal), and John sank back, resting his head on a pillow and dropping his arms passively at his sides.

Sherlock crawled up to lie down beside him, then reached out to trail the fingers of his right hand idly over John's body. He started at his ribs, roaming the man's chest generously with gentle fingertips, tracing arbitrary patterns around his nipples, up to his collarbones and to one shoulder. He found John's scar and caressed it all the while never breaking eye contact with the doctor, whose expression yielded the shortest flash of embarrassment, of psychological discomfort at the contact. Sherlock reassured him by massaging the spot tenderly and smiling - one of those rare, completely heartfelt smiles that he only ever gifted to John, nobody else.

He remembered the day he had shared the story of his scars with John - it wasn't that long ago, and yet it seemed as if ages had passed since then, entire worlds had shifted and universes collided. It had cost him a great deal of strength to reveal the horrific secrets of his past, but looking at John now, feeling the bullet-wound-scar under his fingers, he realized that his pain was likely nothing compared to what the ex-army doctor must have gone through.

Torture, physical abuse - it was a cruel, punishing fate, but after all, the blows weren't fatal; they were never meant to kill, only to enforce. A bullet, on the other hand, had the sole intention of murdering - it was fired to eliminate, and whether hit or miss, to live with just the knowledge of having been the target of such hateful destruction must be torturous in itself.

Sherlock shifted his attention back to John, whose skin was responding to his light touch by flushing and raising its little hairs up to meet him. The detective had to close his eyes as he was overwhelmed with the certainty that he would live to love, to service this man until he died, and that it was the greatest privilege he could imagine. He leaned to kiss along John's jaw, down to his neck, as his fingers moved to find a nipple, instantly feeling it harden under his teasing caress.

A moan escaped John's throat, and the sensation vibrated against Sherlock's lips in an intensely erotic manner that involuntarily made him buck his hips into the other man's side. John looked dazed, completely lost in Sherlock's touch, and the detective took advantage by inconspicuously moving his hand lower, covering almost the entire expanse of John's stomach with the length of spread fingers.

"Close your eyes", he whispered, and John obliged, "I want you to just feel. Concentrate on my fingers."

As the younger man's lips closed around John's previously neglected nipple, his fingers dipped down to envelop the his lover's prick, hot and hard and dripping with precome. He teased the leaking slit and was rewarded with a row of small whimpers.

As he worked John's glans, then switched to tantalizingly slow strokes, Sherlock wondered just how they had come to this point. Merely a few weeks ago, he couldn't have fathomed laying here, naked, pressed against this wonderful man, touching him, kissing him, pleasuring him. Then he had broken his hands, and what ensued had been some of the most disheartening and humiliating days of his life. But through it all there had been one positive thing, one good constant - John. John, who had been there for him regardless, who had taken care of him in ways he was sure he was far from deserving of. John, who had been nothing but kind and amazing and giving, and who had finally turned everything around for them. Or had it been inevitable all along? Had they always been destined for THIS? Did he even believe in destiny...?

"Nnnghh, Sherlock, don't stop", John pleaded and the detective realized that he must have ceased the motion of his hand.

"Onto your side", he commanded instead of an apology, "back towards me."

When the doctor had settled in his new position as Sherlock's little spoon, the latter grabbed some lubricant from the bedside table and slicked up the fingers of his right hand. Scooting up closely behind John, he began showering the shorter man's neck and shoulders with kisses while tracing his fingers down between soft cheeks until they found John's puckered hole.

Massaging it gently with just enough pressure to elicit soft moans, Sherlock patiently waited until John visibly relaxed before slowly pushing a finger inside to the first knuckle. This time around, he joined into the quiet whimpers, overwhelmed by how incredibly intimate it felt to breach another body like this, to physically become part of the person he loved more than he could put into words.

He whispered sweet reassuring nothings into John's ear, well aware of the effect his smooth, deep voice had on the man, and continued to work his finger with deliberate care, inching in and back out gradually.

John's breathing had become rugged, eyes still tightly shut, the hand resting in front of him fisting the sheets. "More", he pressed out with barely concealed need.

Carefully, Sherlock added a second finger to his ventures and John hissed. He instantly stilled but didn't withdraw, knowing from personal experience that the pain would subside momentarily and be replaced by pressure once the body acclimated to the intrusion. They were both reassured in the inherent knowledge that this wasn't headed towards intercourse - not that night, and not with Sherlock as the aggressor (not for the first time, at least).

While giving John's hole time to adjust, Sherlock slid his left hand underneath the body of the man in front of him, reaching for his prick on the other side and resuming the strokes he had previously abandoned.  

As the doctor's moans and groans grew more desperate, indicating a drastically elevated state of arousal that would soon entail climax, Sherlock began slowly and unhurriedly moving his fingers inside of John, aiming for his prostate while simultaneously quickening his other hand's pace of strokes. Although this exercise required precise coordination, he was rather quickly rewarded with an animalistic cry followed by quivering and trembling waves that shook John's body in orgasm.

Upon Sherlock withdrawing his fingers after a little while, John whimpered at the loss, then turned around in the detective's arms for a languid kiss. When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was rendered breathless by the profound vulnerability and trust he detected in them. Hastily, he squeezed his own eyelids shut to the beautiful sight and pulled John in for another kiss, afraid that otherwise be might choke up with happy tears or do something equally sentimental and embarrassing.

Thankfully, he was almost instantaneously distracted from his thoughts as John started palming the erection he had dutifully ignored until then but which was now aching for release.

  
***

  
The next evening, they were just sitting on the sofa in a comfortable tangle of limbs, watching telly after having devoured some Thai take out John had picked up after work. As usual, Sherlock wasn't actually paying any attention to what was happening on screen, but was rather focusing on the sensations provided by each of his nerve endings that were somehow touching John's body. More data to add to his already overly extensive compilation.

He lost his concentration as John's fingers started combing through his hair, and instantly leaned into the welcome touch with a sigh.

"So...what do you think?", the doctor spoke.

"Hmm? About the show?", he wanted to know, slightly confused - John should know better than to ask his opinion of such benign things.

"No, silly. About us. You, me, this." At the last word, he leaned in to place a kiss right behind Sherlock's ear.

"Uhmm...I think it's going fine.", then, after a pause, suddenly unsure, "...isn't it?"

John chuckled. "Oh I think it's going more than fine, Sherlock. I just wanted to make sure we're - you know, on the same page. I...I know this is sort of your first - relationship, and that a lot of things are new for you, so I just wanted to know how you feel about it."

"Oh John", the detective protested weakly, "are you really going to make me talk about my feelings now? How dull."

"Not dull. That's what you DO in a relationship, Sherlock."

He huffed, but then complied: "Fine. I do notice that I have acclimated to the peculiarities of finding myself in a relationship rather well. Comparing this situation with the status quo, it becomes apparent that not a whole lot of things have changed, save for the shared bedroom aspect and the added overall physical component. Especially the latter, I must admit, has proven a rather agreeable and pleasant development." He exhaled strongly, proud of himself for having fared so well and remained so composed in the face of bespeaking sentiment.

As John didn't respond, he turned to look at him with a questioning "Good?", finding the doctor shaking his head at him with a wide grin. "Oh Sherlock", he simply said, fondly, before planting a sloppy kiss on the addressees lips.

"Since you mentioned the - "added overall physical component"", John continued, imitating Sherlock's tone shockingly well, "Last night was incredible. Your hands...god."

They both grinned at the memory, then John added, somewhat more hesitantly: "So...how do you feel about, you know...possibly taking it a step further? In the foreseeable future?"

Sherlock couldn't help the burgeoning of irritation.

"I thought I already told you in no uncertain terms how I felt about said prospect?", he reminded the blond man of the fantasy he had shared with him just recently. "Really, has your brain not the capacity to store information for at least five days?"

John punched his arm playfully.

"No, I remember. Very precisely. It's just...that was a fantasy, a rather explicit one at that, and sometimes - especially when we haven't actually experienced something ourselves yet - we tend to fantasize about things we might not even be sure about wanting just like that. Things like that require some exploration first, Sherlock, and I'm sure as hell not going to turn your first time into a BDSM soft porn scene, no matter how...", he cleared his throat, obviously distracted by the memory of Sherlock describing the specifics of said fantasy, "...no matter how freaking hot it sounds."

Sherlock pursed his lips into his very characteristic pout, but was secretly relieved at John's words. It was true, he didn't know the first thing about his sexuality - and there was a valid chance that what aroused him on a purely cognitive level might deviate somewhat from what he would actually find appealing in practice, especially in a context as precarious as intercourse. More data collection was definitely in order to make a sufficiently informed decision. He found it somewhat aggravating that this was the one area John had so much more expertise in than him, but at the same time he was thankful to his lover for guiding him into this new terrain to consciously and beautifully.

Without expecting an answer, John continued: "I just wanted to make sure you're...ready. To take that step, I mean. And it's fine if you're not, believe me, it's totally fine..."

Sherlock interrupted: "I am. I'm ready, John. I...I trust you, completely. I..."

He trailed off.  Admitting his utter trust was the most meaningful profession of his readiness he could possibly offer in this situation, and he was aware that John knew. Comfortable silence filled the room as they both relished in subtle anticipation while seemingly returning their attention back to the telly, each sporting a small, contented smile on their lips.

The prospect of their future together - full of possibilities, adventures and intimacy; full of likely one or the other incident of misunderstanding or exasperation; full of tea, take out and crap telly - became almost palpable as Sherlock tightly enclosed John's hands with his own, brought them to his lips and whispered between kisses, so low that it might just have escaped his lover's ears: "I love you, John. More than you will ever know."

 

T H E   E N D

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your final thoughts and opinions! :) (especially those of you who have been reading along silently so far ;) )
> 
> On a different note, I've already got my mind set on a new story - Johnlock, naturally, but a casefic this time. I foresee lots of angst and drama and sexytimes :)  
> It probably won't be published for a little bit, I have yet to storyboard all of it, but do keep an eye open for it!
> 
> Until then, all my love <3


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